i     Pr #, ?    « •  JS* 


THE  LIBRARY          ^  '^  < .  > ' %' 

OTBt^M^^gV^ya^{l3f  *T 
if^ftl 

THE  UNIVERSITY      .. 
OF  CALIFORNIA       fc£  ^ 
LOS  ANGELES 


*S$g5 

^/•*>£jyrv 


_   ., 

'     <~^  " 

H^"*-;"4^*?*  V'i 
fi-*inj7  w  rp 


5gif        *^i** 

^•^^.',     :*«.<•  >„ 


JF  ^%:^.* 


DRIFTWOOD 


BY 


MRS.  LOU  SINGLETARY-BEDFORD, 


AND 


DRIFTINGS^ 


BY 


MRS.  MAY  BEDFORD-EAGAN 


DALLAS: 
A.  D.   ALDRIDGE    &    CO. 

1893. 


ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED   BY 
THE  AUTHOR. 


Z851 


INSCRIPTION. 


To  all  those  whose  heart  and  hand  are    in  sympathy  with 
the  work  of  encouraging  and  developing  the  genius  and  talent 

<N» 

of  our  own  beautiful  Southland,  in  every  department  of  litera 
ture,  and  to  the  memory  of  the  beloved  daughter  whose  name  is 

§  associated  with  hers  in  this  publication,  but  whose  early  death 

dissipated  the  hopes  and  aspirations  of  years,  and  cut  short  a  life 
that  promised  to  be  useful,  this  little  volume  is  respectfully  and 

O  affectionately  inscribed  by  THE  AUTHOR. 


uj 

3: 


451818 


BIOGRAPHICAL. 


Mrs.  Lou  Singletary-Bedford  is  the  fifth  child  and  third 
daughter  of  Luther  and  Elizabeth  Stell-Singletary.  Her  father, 
descended  from  an  old  and  honored  English  family,  was  born  in 
Grafton,  Mass.,  in  October,  1796.  Receiving  a  finished  educa- 
toin  in  Boston,  he  emigrated  to  Petersburg,  Va.,  where  he  was 
for  a  time  engaged  as  professor  of  music  and  literature.  At  this 
place  he  married  a  Mrs.  Morgan,  an  accomplished  and  beauti 
ful  young  widow. 

Seized  with  a  desire  to  press  on  towards  the  great  West, 
and  to  unite  his  fortunes  with  its  own, .  Mr.  Singletary  and  his 
wife  soon  removed  to  Middle  Tennessee,  and  from  that  State 
finally  went  to  Kentucky,  where,  in  the  village  of  Feliciana, 
Mrs.  Bedford  was  born  and  passed  the  early  years  of  her  life. 

Inheriting  the  refined  tastes  and  sensibilities  of  both  father 
and  mother,  she  soon  developed  a  rare  talent  for  literature, 
which  only  freed  itself  by  breathing  out  its  spirit  in  verses 
that  even  then  were  remarkable  for  that  soft  melody  and  grace 
which  have  since  characterized  her  work. 

The  warm  sympathetic  nature  of  the  child  was  intensified 
and  quickened  into  poesy  by  the  natural  beauty  and  gentle 
peace  of  her  surroundings,  and  her  earliest  published  poems 
were  well  received.  One  of  her  sweetest  and  most  popular 
poems,  "My  Childhood's  Home,"  was  written  in  her  fifteenth 
year.  In  a  revised  and  more  extended  form  it  appears  in  her  first 
collection  of  poems. 

Adopting  the  pen  name  of  "Lenora"  she  contributed  to  peri 
odicals  work  that  won  the  highest  commendation,  and  decided  her 
to  renewed  efforts  in  the  field  of  literature. 

While  yet  a  girl  she  became  a  teacher  in  the  schools  of  her 
vicinity,  in  which  occupation  she  continued  until  her  marriage, 


VI. 


in  1857,  to  John  Joseph  Bedford,  a  descendent  of  Gunning  Bed 
ford,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States.  Being  a  man  of  refined  tastes  and  acknowledged  talent 
he  was  a  fit  husband  for  his  gifted  wife. 

In  the  financial  panic  of  1857  her  husband's  fortunes  were  so 
much  impaired  that,  busied  with  the  duties  of  wife  and  mother 
and  oppressed  with  life's  cares,  the  pen  was  laid  aside  not  to  be 
taken  up  again  till  the  storm  of  war  ceased  and  the  sunshine 
of  peace  and  prosperity  shone  through  the  lifting  clouds. 

In  1878  she  accompanied  her  husband  to  Florida,  where  he 
went  in  the  interest  of  his  health.  In  Milton,  in  that  State,  he 
took  charge  of  the  "Standard"  to  which  Mrs.  Bedford  contribu 
ted  with  so  much  success  that  she  was  induced  to  drop  her  nom 
de  plume  and  write  over  her  own  name. 

In  the  year  1881,  while  still  residing  in  Florida,  her  first  col 
lection  of  poems,  "A  Vision  and  Other  Poems,"  was  brought  out 
by  the  publishing  house  of  Robert  Clark  &  Company,  Cincinnati. 
A  London  publisher  visiting  Florida  saw  a  copy  of  the  work 
and  secured  permission  to  reproduce  it  in  England,  and  accord 
ingly  issued  it  a  few  months  subsequently. 

This  volume  received  the  most  flattering  recognition.  It 
was  at  once  recognized  to  be  the  work  of  a  poet.  Paul  H. 
Hayne  spoke  warmly  in  its  favor.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
writing  to  Mrs.  Bedford,  after  a  review  of  the  poems,  says:  "I 
recognize  in  your  poems  a  sincere  human  feeling — a  character 
which  always  commends  any  poetical  effort."  Longfellow,  amid 
the  praise  of  the  world  found  time  to  write  a  letter  of  encourage 
ment  and  well  wishes,  and  a  host  of  others,  able  critics  and 
authors,  were  not  insensible  to  the  merits  of  the  work. 

The  Louisville  Courier-Journal,  to  which  Mrs.  Bedford  was 
at  one  time  a  frequent  contributor,  speaking  of  this  work,  says : 
"Mrs.  Lou  S.  Bedford  is  compared  by  many  to  Felicia  He- 
mans  ;  and  permit  me  to  suggest  that  her  name  be  inscribed  as 
high  upon  the  scroll  of  honor  ac.d  worth  as  that  of  Paul  H. 
Hayne.  There  is  the  sweet  charm  of  dignity,  decorum  and  mor- 


all ty;  yea,  even  more,  of  Christianity,  breathing  from  her  lines. 
There  are  beauty  and  variety,  as  she  paints  from  some  image  be 
fore  her  mental  eye ;  and  truth,  as  she  blends  some  internal  pas 
sion  of  noble  thought  with  the  most  beautiful  imagery  and 
choicest  language.  Like  Mrs.  Hemans,  a  tone  of  unforced,  per 
suasive  goodness,  pervades  her  poetry ;  and  though  often  sad,  it 
is  never  complaining.  That  she  is  a  great-hearted,  womanly 
woman,  to  whose  ear  the  words,  home,  husband,  children  and 
friends,  are  terms  of  sweetest  import,  no  one  can  doubt  who  is 
fortunate  enough  to  possess  a  copy  of  her  elegant  poems,  called 
'A  Vision  and  Other  Poems.'  The  Vision  is  a  tribute  to  the 
North  for  her  magnanimity  and  beautiful  charity  to  the  South  in 
1878,  when  the  yellow  fever  had  desolated  and  depopulated  so 
many  cities  and  homes.  The  outpourings  of  a  mighty  sympathy 
dictated  this  poem ;  while  the  fragrant  incense  of  a  nation's  grat 
itude  breathes  and  burns  through  the  inspiration  of  this  woman's 
pen.  And  well  may  we  be  proud  of  and  rejoice  in  her  success; 
for,  although  classed  among  the  Southern  poets,  'this  star-eyed, 
night-haired'  queen  of  Southern  song  is  a  native  of  our  own 
grand  old  Kentucky ;  and  only  a  few  years  ago  sought  a  home 
beneath  sunnier  skies." 

For  the  past  several  years  Mrs.  Bedford  has  resided  in  Dal 
las,  Texas,  where  some  of  her  best  work  has  been  done.  The 
collection,  "Gathered  Leaves,"  her  last  published  volume,  has 
been  deservedly  popular,  and  has  won  for  her  most  sincere  ad 
mirers  wherever  it  has  been  read.  A . 


'I  soar — I'm  drawn  up  like  the  lark 
To  its  white  cloud:     So  high  my  mark, 
Albeit  my  wing  is  small  and  dark. 
*     *     * 

'I  only  would  have  leave  to  loose, 
(In  tears  and  blood,  if  so  He  choose) 
Mine  inward  music  out  to  use. 


'Only  embrace  and  be  embraced 
By  fiery  ends — whereby  to  waste 
And  light  God's  future  with  my  past. 

— E.  B.  BROWNING. 


PREFACE. 


It  is  said  that  prefaces  are  out  of  date;  nevertheless*! 
am  sufficiently  old-fashioned  to  believe  that  a  word  of  ex 
planation  is  often  necessary  to  bring  the  reader  and  writer 
into  sympathy  with  each  other. 

Heretofore  I  have  confined  my  publications  to  poetry;  but 
in  this  miscellaneous  collection  I  have  interspersed  prose  with 
recently  written  poerns,  together  with  others  not  embraced  in 
the  former  volumes.  I  have  also  gathered  together  the  short 
stories  and  other  literary  remains  of  my  daughter,  Mrs.  May 
Bedford-Eagan,  and  included  them  in  this  work.  Had  not  death 
intervened  she  intended  publishing  these  under  the  title  here 
used — Driftings.  In  that  event  mine  would  have  been  called 
Miscellaneous  Pencilings — a  title  under  which  I  have  contrib 
uted  much  to  the  press.  I  have  chosen  Driftwood  and  Drift- 
ings  as  being  a  more  euphoneous  combination  than  the  other 
names  would  have  been.  Doubtless  her  work  would  have 
been  more  finished  had  she  lived  to  revise  it;  but  to  me  it  is 
sacred  as  it  is — I  have  made  few  changes. 

In  regard  to  "Maude  Arnold"  I  would  say  that  the  char 
acters  are  not  a  creation  of  the  brain  alone.  The  father  and 
daughter  are  real  actors,  though  imagination  has  played  a  part 
sometimes  in  their  surroundings.  Its  beauty,  however,  is  not 
in  the  romance  itself,  but  in  the  gradual  unfolding  of  mind 
and  character,  together  with  the  life-like  blending  of  the  re- 


ligious,  the  skeptical  and  the  philosophical  train  of  thought  as 
committed  to  her  diary  by  the  heroine.  I  do  not  think  the 
original  plan  of  the  story  was  fulfilled — the  abrupt  termina 
tion  was  the  result  of  circumstances,  the  writer  marrying  about 
a  week  after  the  last  installment  was  sent  to  the  press. 

•  It  is  a  sad  pleasure  to  have  my  name  connected  in  this  way 
with  one  so  dear — with  one  whose  life  was  an  exponent  of  the 
religion  she  professed,  and  whose  writings  are  an  exponent  of 
the  life  she  lived. 

DALLAS,  TEXAS,  Feb.  9,  1893.  L.  S.  B. 


CONTENTS. 


The  World's  Progress, 

My  'Texas  Garland,"      - 

American  Literature, 

Life, 

Woman's  Defense, 

Mrs.  Walthea  Bryant  Leachman, 

The  Land  of  Rest, 

Saved, 

Welcome  to  Kentuckians, 

A  Rainy   Day, 

Words  of  Jesus, 

Col.  John  C.  McCoy, 

The  Gift  Reclaimed, 

Sunlight  and  Shadow, 

To  a  Skeptical  Student, 

Gethsemane, 

Gather  Them  In, 

"Take  No  Thought  for  the  Morrow," 

Day  Dreams, 

The  Other  Side, 

Sometime, 

The  Passing  Years, 

To-Morrow, 

Sympathy, 

The  Jews, 

Good  Night,    - 

Omission, 

The  Poet's  Heritage, 

Threescore  and  Ten, 


Music,                                                    -  129 

Divided  but  True,  -     130 

Come  Unto  Me,  131 

Duties,      -  -     132 

The  Two  Angels,  1*5 

Blind,  -     135 

May,  136 

No  Home  on  Earth,  -     137 

The  Withered  Flower,  141 

Musings,  -     142 

Missions,          -             -  143 

Our  Modern  D.  D.'s,  -     148 

Pulpit  and  Pew,  151 

Death,       -  -     156 

Lines,                            -  159 

My  Gift,  -     162 

Memoir  of  Mrs.  May  Bedford-Eagan,  169 

Driftings,  -     174 

Catching  the  Sunshine,  195 

Life's  Miserere,     -  -     198 

Maud  Arnold,  203 

One  Christmas  Eve,  -     246 

"They  Met  By  Chance,"  252 

In  Extremis,                      -»  -     260 

To-Morrow,      -  281 

Beautiful  Valley,  -     284 

Buried  Dreams,  286 

An  Idyl,   -  -     291 

Extracts,  296 

Breaking  Up,  -     298 


DRIFTWOOD. 


THE  WORLD'S  PROGRESS. 

" There  is  no  standing  still!     Even  as  we  pause 
The  steep  path  shifts  and  we  slip  back  a  pace; 

Movement  is  safety ;  by  the  journey's  laws 
No  help  is  given,  no  safe  abiding  place ; 

No  idling  in  the  pathway,  hard  and  slow ; 

We  must  go  backward  or  must  forward  go. 

"Ah.  blessed  law!  for  rest  is  passing  sweet. 

And  we  would  all  lie  down  if  so  we  might ; 
And  few  would  struggle  on  with  bleeding  feet, 
And  few  would  ever  gain  the  higher  height; 
Except  for  the  stern  law  that  makes  us  know 
We  must  go  forward,  or  must  backward  go. " 

At  this  age  of  the  world  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  standing  still.  The  Star  of  Empire  has  risen  upon 
the  western  hemisphere,  and  its  light  is  penetrating 
ever}''  section  of  this  great  country,  while  the  same 


14  THE  WORLD'S  PROGRESS. 

vitality  that  has  given  yankeedom  its  character  for 
enterprise  is  permeating  our  sluggish  veins,  and  with 
the  spirit  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  upon  us,  we,  too, 
are  moving  onward.  Should  we  attempt  to  pause  we 
should  be  swept  aside  by  the  irresistible  wheels  of 
Progress,  whose  marks  are  visible  on  every  side,  and 
whose  motions  cannot  be  stopped.  They  may  be 
checked,  but  only  for  a  time,  that  they  may  gain 
leverage  for  a  more  vigorous  onset.  They  are  destined 
to  override  every  obstacle  to  the  attainment  of  their 
appointed  end.  The  silent  forces  of  Nature  are  con 
stantly  at  work  developing  the  wonders  of  the  vege 
table,  the  animal,  and  the  mineral  kingdoms  ;  and 
the  no  less  silent  forces  of  mind  are  developing  results 
the  mentioning  of  which  one  hundred  years  ago 
would  have  startled  the  most  learned  sage.  But 
step  by  step,  revolution  by  revolution,  these  wheels 
have  rolled  on,  until  wonder  is  a  scarcely  remembered 
emotion. 

The  spirit  of  Progress,  at  first  slow,  has  gained 
strength  by  the  way.  She  has  brought  Science  to  her 
aid — or,  rather,  she  is  the  offspring  of  Science,  whose 
birth  has  no  date  in  Time's  calendar,  but  whose  rivu 
lets,  one  by  one,  have  united,  until  now,  with  channel 
widened  and  deepened,  the  current  flows  on  toward  a 


THE  WORLD'S  PROGRESS.  15 

vast  sea,  whose  depths  cannot  be  fathomed.     Through 
her  assistance  see  what  steam  has  accomplished: 

Could  Fulton,  when  he  launched  his  first  rude  boat, 
Have  viewed  the  nations  with  prophetic  eye, 

And  seen  the  stately  vessels  now  afloat, 
And  the  long  line  of  steam  cars  rushing  by, 

How  the  grand  vision  of  the  power  of  steam 

Would  have  surpassed  even  his  wildest  dream. 

And  who  would  have  thought  that  the  discovery 
of  the  identity  of  lightning  with  electricity  would 
result  in  such  wonderful  developments  ?  Truly, 

When  Franklin  caught  the  lightning  in  his  grasp — 
Drew  the  electric  current  from  its  place — 

None  dreamed  he  forged  the  link  by  which  to  clasp 
The  sundered  nations  in  a  close  embrace ; 

But  now,  swifter  than  wind,  with  magic  bound, 

From  clime  to  clime  Thought  sweeps  the  world  around. 

Thus  we  see  that  from  one  small  link  has  grown  a 
great  chain  of  electric  inventions  and  discoveries,  in 
cluding  the  telegraph,  cable,  electric  light  and  electric 
railway,  and  the  thoughtful  mind  sees  others  in  dim 
perspective.  Verily,  the  end  is  not  yet. 

And  when,  in  1819,  George  Stevenson  constructed 
his  first  locomotive,  and  in  1821  engineered  the  rail 
way  between  Liverpool  and  Manchester,  over  which 


16  THE  WORLD'S  PROGRESS. 

locomotives  were  to  pass  at  the  rate  of  twelve  miles 
an  hour,  little  did  he  imagine  that  in  less  than  half  a 
century  railroads,  constructed  on  this  plan,  overleap 
ing  all  barriers,  bridging  rivers  and  bays,  leveling 
hills,  passing  underground  and  penetrating  moun 
tains,  would  form  a  network  throughout  the  civilized 
world,  over  which  the  iron  steed  would  travel  at  the 
rate  of  sixty  or  seventy  miles  an  hour.  But  time 
would  fail  us  should  we  attempt  to  follow  the  signs 
of  advancement  to  be  seen  around  us.  Industry  in 
her  various  forms  is  lending  her  aid  to  Science,  and 
heaven,  by  its  smiles  and  tears,  its  clouds  and  its 
sunshine,  is  constantly  contributing  to  the  world's 
prosperity ;  and  the  eminence  we  have  at  present 
attained  is  but  an  earnest  of  what  the  future  holds  in 
store  for  those  who  "  labor  and  wait." 

And  now,  I  would  ask,  toward  what  does  all  this 
tend  ?  Is  it  designed  by  the  Allwise  alone  for  man's 
temporal  good,  or  is  there  a  moral  to  the  picture  ? 
Cannot  the  Christian  of  this  enlightened  age  see  some 
thing  in  the  "signs  of  the  times"  that  is  "holden" 
from  other  eyes  ?  Does  he  not  perceive  the  watchful 
care  of  the  loving  Father,  as,  by  naeans  of  these 
scientific  inventions,  year  by  year  Christianity  moves 
forward  on  her  appointed  mission  ? 


THE  WORLD'S  PROGRESS.  17 

The  hydra-headed  monster,  Infidelity,  discerns 
these  signs,  and,  alarmed,  is  arraying  herself  for  the 
conflict.  Anti- Bible  societies  are  being  formed  in 
some  of  the  northern  cities,  in  which  the  members 
are  not  permitted  to  make  any  quotation  from  the 
sacred  pages ;  if  through  inadvertence  they  do  so,  an 
apology  is  required.  And  even  in  our  own  fair  city  of 
Dallas,  a  society  has  just  been  formed  (1886)  called 
the  Secular  Union  of  Freethinkers,  the  object  of 
which  seems  to  be  to  so  far  befog  the  mind  of  the  un 
learned  inquirer  after  truth  that  he  will  not  be  able 
to  perceive  the  true  light.  There  is  this  startling  state 
ment  made  by  Dr.  McKay,  the  champion  of  this 
society — an  assertion  which  the  merest  tyro  in  history 
ought  to  be  able  to  refute  : 

"If  we  had  knuckled  down  to  the  dictates  of 
the  Christian  religion  we  would  have  had  no  rail 
roads,  no  telegraph  lines,  no  steamboats.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  parties  going  contrary  to  those  dictates 
America  would  never  have  been  discovered." 

History  has  led  me  to  believe  that  Columbus  was 
a  true  Christian,  in  support  of  which  proposition  it 
states  that  his  first  act  on  landing  on  this  continent 
was  that  of  thanking  God  for  thus  crowning  with  suc 
cess  this  great  enterprise,  which  was  born  of  faith. 


18  THE  WORLD'S  PROGRESS. 

And  when  Morse's  invention  was  demonstrated  to  be 
a  success. the  first  message  flashed  along  the  wire  was: 
"See  what  God  hath  wrought!"  And  so  conscious 
was  he  that  he  was  moved  by  an  inspiration  beyond 
himself  that  when  congratulated  on  his  success  he 
invariably  disclaimed  all  credit,  saying  that  he  was 
simply  an  instrument  in  God's  hands  in  accomplish 
ing  this  important  work.  And  we  ourselves  behold 
how  it  is  accomplishing  that  whereunto  it  was  sent, 
in  that  it  is  being  used  in  transmitting  the  sermons  of 
the  ambassadors  of  His  court  from  city  to  city  and 
from  continent  to  continent.  Other  important  inven 
tions  might  be  cited  bearing  in  this  direction ;  but  it 
is  sufficient  to  state  that  all  the  great  inventions  that 
have  proved  to  be  a  blessing  to  mankind  have  been 
in  Christian  lands,  and  have,  for  the  most  part,  been 
the  outgrowth  of  Christian  minds. 

But  is  Christianity  alarmed  ?  Is  the  disciple  of 
the  Crucified  One  startled  at  these  demonstrations  on 
the  part  of  the  infidel  world  ?  Far  from  it.  It  is 
but  an  evidence  that  the  votaries  of  infidelity  are  fear 
ing  for  their  strongholds.  When  the  prince  of  the 
powers  of  darkness  begins  to  marshal  his  hosts  for  an 
assault  on  his  Bible  and  his  religion,  the  Christian 
sees  in  it  simply  a  fulfillment  of  that  which  is  "  writ- 


THE  WORLD'S  PROGRESS.  19 

ten,"  and  feels  that  he  is  standing  on  the  threshold  of 
a  bright  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  church. 

Freethinking,  like  other  forms  of  infidelity,  is 
simply  a  "  refuge  of  lies,"  behind  which  thousands 
hide  themselves  in  their  "day  of  visitation,"  and 
from  which  they  are  destined  to  go  down  to  that 
Plutonian  region — 

"In  whose  arm  and  brain  his  own  redemption  lies," 

and  from  which  he  will  be  awakened  to  a  conscious 
ness  of  his  error  too  late  : 

And  of  all  ever  written  or  spoken 

Too  late  is  the  saddest  word 
That  e'er  with  its  mournful  import 

The  innermost  spirit  stirred. 
'Tis  the  knell  of  a  hope  that's  vanished, 

The  wail  of  a  vain  regret, 
The  lowest  depths  of  whose  anguish 

Have  never  been  fathomed  yet. 

Ah !  truly,  freethinking,  notwithstanding  the 
metaphysical  glamor  thrown  around  it  by  Dr.  Mc 
Kay,  is  but  foolishness  to  one  who  "spiritually  dis 
cerns"  his  immortality;  for  the  wisdom  of  man,  out 
side  of  Revelation,  only  reaches  the  mind,  while  the 
teachings  of  the  word  of  God  take  hold  on  the  heart. 


20  THE  WORLD'S  PROGRESS. 

And  the  Author,  not  content  with  this  Book  as  an 
expression  of  His  love,  calls  and  sends  ministers  to 
deliver  its  message.  Still  not  satisfied,  He  raises  up 
men  of  genius,  whose  inventions  and  discoveries,  such 
as  the  printing  press,  railroad,  cable  and  telegraph, 
notwithstanding  Dr.  McKay's  opinion  to  the  contrary, 
are  intended  to  facilitate  the  work  of  His  ambassadors 
in  carrying  the  gospel  to  all  nations.  Verily  the  goal 
toward  which  the  spirit  of  progress  is  tending  through 
out  the  world  is  the  accomplishing  of  Christ's  com 
mission  to  His  disciples — the  preaching  of  the  gospel 
to  every  creature.  Yea, 

When  for  God's  glory  inan  would  penetrate 
The  ice-bound  region  round  the  northern  pole, 

Methinks  no  obstacle  will  be  too  great 
Before  the  gospel  car  to  backward  roll ; 

Since  Science  and  the  Gospel  hold  the  key 

Of  every  door  to  every  land  and  sea. 

And  though  a  myriad  perish  by  the  way, 
The  work  of  these  twin  sisters  will  go  on ; 

Benighted  lands  shall  see  the  gospel  day, 
Alike  'mid  Arctic  snows,  'neath  tropic  sun ; 

The  banner  of  the  Cross  remain  unfurled, 

While  it  stands  written,  "!NTO  ALL  THE  WOKLD.  " 


MY    ''TEXAS   GARLAND."  21 

MY  "TEXAS  GARLAND." 

A  dainty  garland  I  have  wreathed 
Of  flowers  from  a  Texas  plain — 

All  glorious  with  such  radiant  hues 
As  I  may  never  see  again  ; 

For  Time  has  dimmed  the  rosy  light 

That  made  their  dewy  petals  bright. 

One,  fair  and  fragile  as  the  vine 
That  to  the  oak  doth  lightly  cling, 

Put  forth  a  deeper,  lovelier  bloom, 
With  each  recurrence  of  the  spring  ; 

Till  Texas  prairie  never  knew 

A  blossom  of  a  sweeter  hue. 

On  silent  wings  three  years  went  by, 

And  then  another  tiny  bloom 
Burst  into  beauty,  and  the  air 

Was  redolent  with  the  perfume ; 
'Mid  lilies  set,  its  starry  eyes 
Rivaled  the  azure  of  the  skies. 

Then  came  another  tender  bud, 
As  lovely,  but  of  deeper  dye ; 


22  MY  "TEXAS  GARLAND." 

As  if  Italian  airs  had  kissed 

Its  rosy  leaves  in  passing  by  ; 
Lightly  caressed  by  sun  and  dew, 
Stronger  and  ruddier  it  grew. 

Uprooting  these  from  native  soil, 
We  bore  afar  each  precious  gem  ; 

But  God  stooped  down  and  plucked  the  first, 
And  left  us  but  the  broken  stem, 

Which  reverently  we  laid  away 

To  'wait  the  Resurrection  day. 

Exotic,  three,  on  Texas  soil, 

Later,  took  root,  and,  side  by  side, 

Flourished,  till  on  a  winter's  day 

One  withered,  and — 'twas  said,  it  died  ; 

But  well  I  know,  past  earthly  ill, 

In  Heaven  it  is  blooming  still. 

And  then  two  buds,  tender  and  sweet, 
To  comfort  my  lone  heart  were  given  ; 

Each  promising  as  fair  a  flower 

As  ever  burst  to  bloom  in  Heaven  ; 

But,  needing  one  to  grace  His  throne, 

God  took  it,  leaving  us  but  one. 


AMERICAN    LITERATURE.  28 

Of  the  eight  precious  blossoms,  three 
No  longer  gladden  earthly  bowers; 

And  life  holds  nothing  that  can  fill 

The  void  made1  by  my  "missing  flowers;" 

The  others,  deeper,  stronger,  set 

In  Texas  soil,  are  blooming  yet. 

Thus  one  by  one  each  cherished  bloom 
Is  falling  from  its  earthly  stem  ; 

Those  that  remain  full  well  I  know. 
Will  fade  and  pass  away  like  them, 

To  form,  I  trust,  in  Eden's  bower, 

A  "Texas  garland"  in  full  flower. 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 

The  literature  of  a  nation  is  its  most  lasting 
monument.  Rivers  change  their  channel,  mountains 
their  base.  The  grand  old  Mississippi  is  a  worthy 
illustration  of  the  first  statement,  some  of  the  most 
valuable  portions  of  a  number  of  the  cities  and  vil 
lages  along  its  banks  having  fallen  in,  a  correspond 
ing  building  up  or  embanking  of  the  sand  and  soil  on 


21  AMERICAN    LITERATURE. 

the  opposite  side  following  as  the  result;  and  to-day 
pleasure  boats  and  vessels  of  commerce,  on  the  smooth 
bosom  of  its  waters,  glide  all  unheeding  over  the  sub 
merged  land  and  houses.  •  For  proof  of  the  latter, 
read  the  statements  of  historians  and  travelers.  They 
tell  us  that  the  Heliopolis  obelisk,  of  Egypt,  which 
once  stood  on  an  eminence,  now  has  its  base  several 
feet  below  the  surrounding  plain,  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
the  great  Nile  having  undermined  it.  Let  this  suffice 
as  examples. 

Sculptured  marble  and  stone,  crumbling  beneath 
the  finger  of  Time,  lose  their  symmetry  and  their 
beauty;  and  it  remains  for  the  historian  and  the  poet 
to  transmit  in  living  colors  to  unborn  generations  the 
story  of  their  grandeur  and  their  glory.  Recent  trav 
elers  in  Italy  tell  us  that  the  glory  has  departed  from 
the  Colliseum  of  the  Seven-Hill-City — that  grand  am 
phitheatre  of  Vespasian  at  Rome.  The  magnificent 
temples  of  Greece,  the  Parthenon  at  Athens  and  the 
Pantheon,  though  well-preserved,  have  not  escaped  the 
impress  of  the  centuries.  But  the  pens  of  the  histor 
ians  of  Egypt,  of  Virgil  and  Dante,  and  Herodotus, 
have  raised  for  their  respective  countries  monuments 
whose  inscriptions  will  be  read  with  pleasure  and 
profit  when  those  of  stone  shall  have  been  razed  to 


AMERICAN    LITERATURE.  25 

the  ground,  it  may  be  to  give  place  to  a  later  civiliza 
tion.  As  an  evidence  of  the  imperishable  nature  of 
literature,  take  that  of  the  Arabian  Cushites,  who,  for 
ages,  were  leaders  in  civilizing  the  nations.  Of  this 
fact  there  are  indelible  and  indisputable  records. 
They  were  the  first  to  use  weights  and  measures;  and 
long  before  the  Egyptians,  who  boast  of  their  ancient 
civilization,  had  thought  of  such  a  currency,  they 
used  stamped  metallic  coins;  and  those  who  have 
seen  them  say  that  modern  times  have  not  produced 
any  more  beautiful.  (Parenthetically  let  me  say  here 
that  it  is  evident  Wisdom  was  not  born  with  us.) 
The  earliest  of  the  Cushite  Arabian  writings  that 
have  come  to  us  were  found  on  a  crumbling  monu 
ment  on  the  coast  of  Arabia,  and  deciphered  by  Rev. 
C.  Foster,  of  England.  The  writing  was  in  three 
parts,  all  relating  to  the  "  destruction  of  an  Arabian 
war-party  named  Ac,  by  the  tribe  of  Ad,  a  great 
grandson  of  Noah,  whose  territory  the  former  had, 
unprovoked,  invaded.  In  the  description  of  the  sur 
roundings  the  record  says:  "  We  walked  with  slow, 
proud  step,  in  needle-worked,  many-colored  vestments, 
in  whole-silk,  in  grass-green  checkered  robes.''  It 
further  states  that  their  Kings  recorded:  "Good 
judgments  written  in  books  to  be  kept;  and  we  pro- 


26  AMERICAN    LITERATURE. 

claimed  our  belief  in  miracles,  in  the  resurrection  and 
the  return  into  the  nostrils  of  the  breath  of  life." 
The  engraving  was  made  in  the  Aditic  and  Hamy- 
ritic  alphabet,  fac-similes  of  which  are  given  in  Mr. 
Foster's  great  work  on  Arabia,  and  he  thinks  that  the 
engraving  was  not  made  later  than  five  hundred  years 
after  the  flood.  These  specimens  of  pre-historic  lit 
erature  have  been  rescued  by  the  faithful  antiquary, 
and  when  the  stone,  already  mouldering,  on  which 
they  were  engraven,  shall  be  buried  by  some  convul 
sion  of  nature,  or  trampled  under  foot  and  forgotten, 
they  will  stand  as  living  witnesses  of  the  faith  and 
skill  of  that  people. 

Let  us  draw  a  contrast  between  the  strength  of 
marble  and  of  mind.  The  pyramid  of  Cheops,  one 
of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world,  covering  an  area 
of  more  than  thirteen  acres  of  ground,  and  contain 
ing  material  sufficient  to  build  a  city  as  large  as  our 
National  Capitol,  has,  for  ages,  stood  as  a  wonder  of 
art,  of  architecture  and  of  science.  It  took  four  hun 
dred  thousand  men  twenty  years  to  build  it;  but  it 
has  not  escaped  the  ravages  of  time — the  outer  ma 
sonry  is  fast  mouldering  away.  From  this  grand 
work  turn  to  Homer,  the  blind  minstrel  of  Smyrna, 
who  lived  and  sang  while  the  language  of  his  country 


AMERICAN    LITERATURE.  27 

was  yet  in  its  infancy,  and  when  its  ballads  had  not 
aspired  to  the  dignity  of  being  classed  as  refined 
poetry.  Macauley  says  it  is  probable  that  Homer 
never  knew  a  letter;  but  such  a  supposition  seems 
unworthy  of  credence.  Long  before  his  time,  Cad 
mus,  a  son  of  the  King  of  the  Phenicians,  who  were 
at  that  time,  the  most  highly  civilized  nation  on  the 
globe,  had  furnished  sixteen  letters  to  the  Greek  al 
phabet,  then  in  its  formative  state;  and  in  Homer's 
time  the  Ionic  or  Eolic  dialect,  in  which  he  wrote, 
was  in  its  highest  state  of  development.  Besides, 
while  I  would  yield  due  deference  to  Lord  Macauley's 
opinion,  standing  as  he  does  at  the  head  of  English 
historians,  it  certainly  seems  preposterous  to  suppose 
that  a  man  ignorant  of  letters  and  their  use  could  at 
tain  such  perfection  of  style  and  purity  of  diction  as 
are  evinced  in  his  renowned  poems,  the  "Iliad"  and 
"Odyssey."  And  not  the  least  wonder  in  connection 
with  his  work  is  that  it  was  accomplished  without 
the  aid  of  any  of  the  modern  accessories  to  writing, 
such  as  pen,  ink  and  paper,  which  are  esteemed  in 
dispensable  to  a  literary  career;  and  when  the  printing 
press  had  not  entered  into  man's  dreams.  How  little 
did  he  think  the  time  in  which  he  lived  would, 
through  the  centuries,  be  called  the  Homeric  age;  or 


28  AMERICAN   LITERATURE. 

that,  translated,  his  works  would  be  read  by  every 
nation  of  the  earth;  or  that  the  names  of  such  poets 
as  Dante  and  Virgil,  and  even  Milton,  would  borrow 
luster  from  the  reflected  light  of  his  genius!  The 
work  of  the  four  hundred  thousand  men  for  twenty 
years  is  slowly  yielding  to  the  influence  of  time,  while 
this  one  man,  living  in  an  obscure  age  and  laboring 
under  untold  disadvantages,  has  reared  a  monument 
to  his  name  and  the  glory  of  his  country  as  lasting 
as  time,  even  though  it  should  stretch  away  into  an 
infinity  of  years. 

But  it  was  to  our  own  literature,  however  much  I 
may  have  digressed,  that  I  esayed  to  pay  my  res 
pects  in  commencing  this  paper.  It  has  been  derid- 
ingly  said  that  America — the  youngest  and  fairest  of 
the  nations — has  no  literature.  In  the  sense  that  she 
has  no  distinct  or  original  language,  the  statement  is 
correct;  and  this  circumstance  has,  perhaps,  prevented 
her  taking  as  high  rank  in  the  world  of  letters  as  she 
otherwise  would  have  done,  since  in  the  process  of 
translation  into  other  tongues  there  is  danger  of  hers 
passing  for  English  work.  She  has,  however,  a  dis 
tinct  literature  by  reason  of  her  individuality  of  his 
tory,  of  scenery  and  of  government.  The  corner 
stone  in  this  structure  was  laid  October  28, 1736,  when 


AMERICAN    LITERATURE.  29 

£400  was  voted  by  the  general  court  of  Boston  to 
ward  a  school  or  college,  to  which  amount,  two  years 
later,  the  learned  English  clergyman,  John  Harvard, 
added  £800  and  320  volumes.  Thus  was  commenced 
Harvard  College  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  which 
to-day  has,  besides  landed  property,  $1,000,000  of  in 
vested  capital;  and  around  this  venerable  institution 
and  its  ''co-laborers,  William  and  Mary,  and,  later, 
Princeton  and  Columbia  and  Georgetown,"  cluster  the 
names  and  works  that  have  created  American  Litera 
ture. 

Unlike  almost  every  other  nation  that  has  at 
tained  any  eminence  in  letters,  America  has  had  no 
dark  age  in  her  literature,  its  foundation  having  been 
laid  at  a  time  when  the  English  language,  having 
passed  through  the  crucial  test  of  formation,  had  at. 
tained  a  high  degree  of  purity;  and  having  as  its  sup 
porters  such  names  as  Jonathan  Edwards,  John 
Winthrop,  Ezra  Stiles,  Alexander  Hamilton,  and 
Benjamin  Franklin,  who,  someone  has  graphically 
said,  "tore  the  lightning  from  heaven,  the  sceptre 
from  tyrants,  and  left  to  American  Literature  the 
wisdom  of  an  honest  and  a  great  mind." 

But  in  tracing  its  development,  we  must  admit 
there  was  a  time  when  the  circumstances  which  led  to 


30  AMERICAN    LITERATURE. 

the  settlement  of  this  great  continent  gave  coloring  to 
all  literary  production;  and  not  until  the  fires  of  re 
ligious  persecution  were  extinguished  did  the  intel 
lectual  forces  come  into  full  action,  literature  take  a 
wider  range  in  the  great  field  of  Thought,  and  a  brighter 
day  dawn  in  the  Empire  of  Mind.  But  it  is  impossi 
ble  to  enumerate  the  names  of  all  who  have  contribu 
ted  to  the  erection  of  this  imposing  structure.  The 
heavens  are  studded  with  unnumbered  stars,  each  one 
yielding  its  complement  of  the  light  that  falls  in  a 
halo  of  glory  around  us,  but  it  is  only  the  few  that  we 
can  call  by  name;  and  so  in  the  great  galaxy  of  the 
mental  Universe,  it  is  only  a  small  number  whose 
writings  have  formed  a  pronounced  feature  of  our 
literature. 

When  the  unrest  incident  to  the  Revolution  had 
given  place  to  tranquillity,  the  magic  wand  of  Poesy 
was  passed  over  our  new  and  beautiful  land,  the  in 
spiration  of  Song  came  upon  our  sons  and  daughters, 
and  through  all  the  years  of  our  nationality  the 
sweetest  melodies  have  kept  time  to  the  march  of 
Progress.  Year  by  year  has  added  beauty  and  rich 
ness  to  American  Song,  much  of  which  will  perhaps 
prove  ephemeral,  but  the  lessons  given  will  doubtless 
do  good  in  their  generation.  Indeed,  it  is  pleasant  to 


AMERICAN    LITERATURE.  31 

believe  that  the  meteor-like  flashes  of  light  that 
sweep  across  the  intellectual  horizon,  fade  away  and 
are  seemingly  lost,  instead,  often  light  up  some  dark 
mind,  and  penetrate  the  clouds  gathered  about  some 
sorrowing  heart. 

Nor  have  the  sons  of  Story  been  idle.  By  means 
of  their  genius  Romance  has  thrown  over  our  majestic 
mountains,  green  valleys,  broad  rivers  and  unrivaled 
lakes  and  waterfalls,  the  veiled  luster  of  its  drapery, 
and  grove  and  prairie  have  become  peopled  with  a 
race  of  beings  which  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  Old 
World  seem  almost  as  mythical  as  the  fabulous 
race  of  the  Lilliputians.  The  pen  of  James  Fenimore 
Cooper  has  indeed  immortalized  our  woods,  lakes  and 
prairies  ;  woven  around  the  dusky  Sons  of  the  Forest 
a  beautiful  web  of  romance  which  cannot  be  easily 
torn  away,  and  opened  a  new  era  in  the  realm  of  Fic 
tion.  The  genius  of  Walter  Scott  has  wreathed  with 
garlands  of  unfading  glory  the  historic  lands  of 
England,  Scotland  and  Wales,  laid  bare  the  secrets  of 
Kings  and  of  courts,  while  Cooper,  with  equal  skill 
and  in  a  strikingly  similar  style,  has  thrown  a  charm 
around  our  forests  which  the  coming  years  will  not 
weaken ;  for  his  pen-pictures  are  destined  to  take  a 
permanent  place  in  American  literature.  The  high 


32  AMERICAN   LITERATURE. 

renown  of  his  works  is  not  confined  to  our  own  coun 
try.  The  fisherman  of  Norway,  the  merchant  of  Bor 
deaux,  and  the  scholar  of  Frankfort,  have  hung  with 
delight  over  his  stories  of  the  sea  and  the  thrilling 
adventures  of  the  New  World,  which  were  at  once 
translated  into  their  respective  languages.  This  is  cer 
tainly  no  small  or  unworthy  tribute  to  his  genius. 
Delicacy  of  thought  and  refinement  of  expression 
characterize  his  writings  throughout.  And  if  the 
mind  sometimes  becomes  weary  with  the  tediousness 
of  the  narrative,  it  is  not  for  want  of  gems  of  thought 
along  the  way,  but  from  impatience  to  follow  the 
fortunes  of  the  characters  who  never  fail  to  interest. 
For  beauty,  tenderness  and  pathos,  some  of  his  scenes 
stand  pre-eminent  and  alone.  Indeed,  I  can  recall  no 
picture  from  the  pen  of  any  writer  that  is  at  all  com 
parable  in  delicacy  of  delineation  and  thrilling  interest 
to  the  death  scene  of  Leather  Stocking.  The  silence 
that  reigned  in  the  camp,  the  taciturnity  of  the 
Indians,  the  delicacy  of  feeling  that  moved  these  un 
tutored  children  of  the  woods  to  stuff  the  skin  of  his 
dog  and  keep  it  near  the  old  man,  whose  senses  were 
blunted  by  age,  that  he  might  not  know  that  the 
companion  of  his  life  was  gone;  their  gravity  and 
their  sympathy  for  him;  his  springing  to  his  feet  just 


AMERICAN    LITERATURE.  33 

before  breathing  his  last  and  exclaiming  "Here!" 
seemingly  in  answer  to  the  roll  call  of  Heaven,  is  all 
portrayed  in  a  masterly  manner,  that  has  rarely  been 
equaled,  and  perhaps  never  surpassed  by  a  writer  of 
any  age. 

In  the  enthusiasm  awakened  by  my  admiration 
of  the  great  pioneer  of  American  Romance,  I  have  to 
some  extent  unwittingly  anticipated  the  progress  of 
American  literature;  but  would  make  amends  by 
returning  and  taking  up  the  thread  of  the  subject  at 
the  point  of  divergence. 

In  planning  the  erection  of  a  building  designed  to 
withstand  the  ravages  of  time,  too  much  pains  can 
scarcely  be  taken  in  giving  it  a  secure  foundation,  lest 
in  the  coming  years  it  should  fall  and  become  simply 
a  mass  of  mouldering  ruins.  The  same  is  true  in 
regard  to  the  construction  of  a  language  or  a  litera 
ture.  In  accordance  with  reason  and  the  universal 
fitness  of  things,  it  is  impossible  for  a  Nation  com 
posed  of  different  nationalities  and  tongues  to  build 
for  itself  a  distinctive  name  and  character  in  the  great 
world  of  letters  without  laying  the  foundation  of  such 
a  structure.  This  thought  was  early  impressed  upon 
the  minds  of  the  educators  of  America  as  a  result  of 
their  observance  of  a  "vicious  pronunciation  which 


34  AMERICAN    LITERATURE. 

prevailed  extensively  among  the  common  people," 
notwithstanding  the  formative  period  of  the  prevailing 
language  extended  backward  through  centuries;  and, 
while  yet  the  subsiding  thunders  of  the  Revolution 
were  reverberating  among  the  New  England  hills,  and 
the  infant  voice  of  Freedom  rejoicing  over  the  broken 
bonds  of  Tyranny  and  the  birth  of  a  Nation,  the 
dream  of  emancipating  the  English  tongue  from  the 
tyrant,  Ignorance,  into  whose  hands  it  had  fallen, 
dawned  upon  the  mind  of  Noah  Webster;  and  he  at 
once  set  about  the  work  of  preparing  the  chief  corner 
stone  destined  to  become  the  support  of  the  grandest 
and  most  universally  spoken  language  in  the  world. 

However,  before  attempting  to  trace  the  develop 
ment  of  a  work  of  such  magnitude  aud  far-reaching 
importance  it  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  give  a  con 
densed  sketch  of  the  lineage*  and  life  of  its  author. 
Noah  Webster,  the  son  of  a  highly  respectable  farmer 
of  Connecticut,  was  born  in  Hartford  on  the  16th  of 
October,  1758.  He  was  a  descendant  in  the  fourth 
generation  of  John  Webster,  an  early  settler  of  that 
city,  and  at  one  time  Governor  of  Connecticut.  On 
the  maternal  side  he  was  a  descendant  of  William 
Bradford,  the  second  Governor  of  Plymouth  Colony; 
and  thus  it  appears  that  the  tides  that  met  in  the 


AMERICAN    LITERATURE.  35 

future  lexicographer's  veins  were  Pilgrim  and  Puritan, 
without  dilution  from  less  sterling  sources.  It  is  seen 
by  this  that  he  was  of  fine  lineage  on  both  sides, 
since  in  that  day  merit  was  more  generally  the  basis 
on  which  men  were  chosen  than  now,  when  political 
preferment  is,  alas,  too  often  the  result  of  a  corrupt 
ballot,  and  not  the  expression  of  the  unbiased  wishes 
of  the  people. 

As  in  the  case  of  most  great  men  of  America, 
Poverty  was  the  ungentle  and  austere  disciplinarian 
that  guided  him  amid  dark  labyrinths  and  intricate 
passages,  until,  a  well-developed  illustration  of  her 
wholesome  tutelage,  he  came  forth  prepared  for  the 
long  a  ad  tedious  research  necessary  for  the  work  of 
his  life.  In  him  is  presented  a  fair  illustration  of  the 
true  proposition  that  Nature  is  not  blind  in  her  gifts 
— since  his  inherent  tastes  were  so  perfectly  suited  to 
the  scion  of  a  family  for  generations  distinguished  for 
longevity,  several  of  his  immediate  ancestors  having 
attained  the  remarkable  age  of  eighty  or  ninety 
years.  Indeed,  a  work  of  such  vast  compass  could 
not,  from  its  incipiency,  reach  completion  in  the 
course  of  an  ordinary  lifetime. 

The  difficulties  which  Mr.  Webster  experienced 
in  establishing  himself  in  business  after  completing 


36  AMERICAN    LITERATURE. 

his  course  at  Yale,  where  he  graduated  with  honor  in 
1778,  will  better  be  appreciated  when  it  is  remembered 
that  the  war  of  Independence,  with  all  its  sorrowful 
details  of  trials  and  hardships,  was  devastating  the 
colonies,  and  that  the  final  result  was  afar  off  and 
uncertain.  But  with  the  dauntless  courage  that 
characterized  him  throughout  a  long  and  busy  and 
useful  life,  he  left  his  home  to  carve  out  his  own  for 
tune,  with  only  $4.00  of  our  present  currency  in  his 
purse — the  parting  gift  of  his  father.  His  first  essay 
in  this  direction  was  teaching  school  in  his  native 
city,  Hartford.  He  also  commenced  the  study  of  law; 
the  resort  then,  as  printing  is  now,  of  young  men  whose 
aspirations  point  them  to  something  more  congenial 
to  the  intellectual  nature  than  is  manual  labor. 
Verily,  the  law  and  the  printer's  case  have  proved  the 
stepping  stones  of  thousands  to  places  of  dignity  and 
honor,  and  given  them  an  impetus  upward  that  has 
rendered  their  names  the  synonyms  of  all  that  is 
great  and  good.  In  his  position  as  teacher  he  soon 
felt  the  need  of  a  better  class  of  text-books  than  were 
then  within  his  reach,  for  the  instruction  of  pupils  in 
the  elementary  and  fundamental  principles  of  the 
English  Language,  and  he  assumed  the  task  of  sup 
plying  the  deficiency.  The  result  was,  "The  Gram- 


AMERICAN    LITERATURE.  37 

matical  Institute  of  the  English  Language,"  published 
in  three  parts.  The  entire  work,  however,  by  means 
of  a  course  of  evolution,  was  in  a  few  years  reduced 
to  the  well-known  "  Elementary  Spelling  Book"  of 
the  present  time — a  work  which  was  so  popular  that 
up  to  1847,  24,000,000  copies  of  it  were  published,  in 
the  different  forms  it  assumed  under  the  revision  of 
its  author,  with  constantly  increasing  popularity;  and, 
for  a  number  of  years  subsequently,  the  demand 
averaged  a  million  copies  annually.  In  1862,  41,000- 
000  copies  had  been  sold.  Indeed,  the  entire  support 
of  the  lexicographer's  family  was  derived  from  the 
sale  of  this  work,  during  the  twenty  years  he  was  en 
gaged  in  preparing  his  great  American  Dictionary, 
which  was  published  in  1828.  We  all  know  how  uni. 
versal  was  its  use  until  within  the  past  fifteen  years, 
when  it  has  to  some  extent  been  superceded  by  later, 
but  1  am  by  no  means  sure,  more  worthy,  aspirants 
for  public  favor. 

Like  the  intrepid  hero  whose  birthland  was  the 
unpretentious  island  of  Corsica,  or  Alexander,  King 
of  the  insignificant  province  of  Macedon,  the  English 
language,  simple  in  its  origin,  has  nevertheless  been  a 
language  of  conquest.  Tracing  its  lineage  back  to  the 
Teutonic  and  Celtic,  it  claims  as  its  immediate  ances- 


451818 


38  AMERICAN    LITERATURE. 

tors  the  Angles  and  Saxon;  and,  while  possessing  the 
important  characteristics  of  both  parents,  its  more 
marked  resemblance  to  the  Angles  has  determined  its 
name — the  Anglican  or  English  language.  Besides 
this,  it  receives  tribute  from  perhaps  twenty  other 
tongues,  including  the  French,  the  Latin  and  the 
Greek — all  having  more  or  less  influence  upon  its  vo 
cabulary.  In  fact,  it  is  claimed  that  its  peculiarity 
is  not  so  much  that  it  has  borrowed  words,  as  that  it 
has  borrowed  so  many  of  them.  As  already  stated, 
its  formative  period  extended  over  many  centuries;  its 
slow  development  being  incident  to  the  introduction 
of  so  many  elements  into  its  composition  in  conse 
quence  of  the  frequent  changes  in  the  line  of  its 
kings;  but  its  relationship  to  other  tongues  and  dialects 
is  too  intricate  to  be  given  in  this  place;  though  what 
has  been  said  is  relevant  in  that  it  serves  to  show  the 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  the  great  philologist  in  har 
monizing  the  discordant  elements  in  termination, 
rhythm  and  euphony,  and  at  the  same  time  giving  it 
a  distirctly  American  stamp.  Indeed,  the  difficulties 
in  etymology  proved  so  great  that,  after  spending  two 
or  three  years  on  his  great  work,  he  suspended  it,  and 
devoted  ten  years  to  its  study,  spending  some  months 
in  Paris  and  Cambridge  consulting  men  of  learning, 


AMERICAN    LITERATURE.  39 

and  examining  books  bearing  on  the  subject.  The 
result  of  this  devotion  to  study,  the  completion  of  the 
great  American  Dictionary,  is  the  grandest  literary 
achievement  of  the  century.  It  is  the  student's  treas 
ury;  the  storehouse  from  which  philosopher,  poet  and 
historian  draw. 

Mr.  Webster  was  an  encyclopedia  of  learning; 
but  his  literary  record  is  not  circumscribed  by  his 
dictionary  and  spelling  book,  although,  for  their  in 
fluence  upon  the  American  and  English-speaking 
world,  they  are  the  most  important.  To  these  we  are 
indebted  for  the  "remarkable  uniformity  of  pronunci 
ation  in  our  country,  which  is  often  spoken  of  with 
surprise  by  English  travelers."  The  success  of 
the  Dictionary  has  verified  the  author's  faith  that 
he  had  prepared  a  work  that  the  world  will  not 
"willingly  let  die;"  for  it  has  become  not  only  our 
own  standard,  but  the  standard  of  England,  as  was 
shown  by  the  reply  of  a  London  bookseller  to  a  gentle 
man  who  had  called  for  the  best  English  dictionary: 
"That,"  he  said,  handing  him  Webster's  Unabridged, 
"is  the  only  real  dictionary  of  the  English  language, 
though  it  was  prepared  by  an  American."  It  was  a 
fine  tribute  paid  by  her  Majesty's  subject  to  a  son  of 
the  Republic. 


40  AMERICAN    LITERATURE. 

The  discipline  of  Mr.  Webster's  early  years 
adapted  him  to  his  peculiar  field  of  labor.  Of  a  san 
guine  temperament,  his  distinguishing  traits  were 
enterprise,  self-reliance  and  perseverance.  Intimate 
in  his  relationship  with  the  leading  spirits  of  the 
time,  such  as  Alexander  Hamilton,  John  Jay,  Oliver 
Wolcott,  Timothy  Pickering,  and  other  great  men 
who  were  active  in  organizing  the  new  Government, 
it  was  in  the  nature  of  things  that  he  should  under 
take  to  organize  a  language  in  harmony  with  the  new 
mode  of  thought  of  our  liberty-loving  ancestors,  and 
give  authority  to  the  Americanisms  springing  up  at 
the  overthrow  of  tyranny.  In  truth,  in  all  his  works 
he  was  conscientiously  American,  his  patriotism  as 
serting  itself  in  every  part  of  his  work.  In  his  pref 
ace  to  the  American  Spelling  Book  he  says:  "To 
diffuse  a  uniformity  and  purity  of  language  in 
America,  to  destroy  the  provincial  prejudices  that 
originate  in  the  trifling  differences  of  dialects  and 
produce  ridicule,  to  promote  the  interest  of  literature 
and  the  harmony  of  the  United  States,  is  the  most 
earnest  wish  of  the  author;  and  it  is  his  highest  am 
bition  to  deserve  the  approbation  and  encouragement 
of  his  countrymen."  Even  then  he  was  looking  for 
ward  to  that  orthographic  reform  which  our  language 


AMERICAN    LITERATURE.  41 

is  gradually  undergoing,  and  dared  sometimes  brook 
popular  prejudice  by  introducing  words  spelled  ac 
cording  to  the  phonetic  system,  which,  at  the  present 
time,  is  gaining  favor  among  "  the  best  speakers  and 
writers,"  who,  according  to  Noble  Butler,  are  to  be  ac 
cepted  as  authority;  and,  when  rallied  on  this  inno 
vation,  he  defended  himself  by  showing  that  going  far 
enough  back  we  would  come  on  the  so-called  new  form 
of  words  in  the  old  English  literature;  and  that  he 
was  not  inventing,  but  simply  restoring  the  original 
orthography  of  the  language.  But  while  yielding 
deference  to  old  forms  in  this  respect,  he  never  fails 
in  loyalty  to  his  country.  Horace  E.  Scudder  says: 
"The.  ease  with  which  Webster  walked  about  the 
Jericho  of  English  lexicography,  blowing  his  trumpet 
of  destruction,  was  an  American  ease,  born  of  a  sense 
that  America  was  a  continent  and  not  a  province. 
He  transferred  the  capitol  of  literature  from  London 
to  Boston  or  New  York  or  Hartford — he  was  indiffer 
ent  so  long  as  it  was  in  America,  He  thought  Wash 
ington  as  good  an  authority  on  spelling  as  Dr.  John 
son,  and  much  better  than  King  George.  He  took 
the  Bible  as  a  book  to  be  used,  not  as  a  piece  of  an 
tiquity  to  be  sheltered  in  a  museum,  and  with  an 
American  practicality  set  about  making  it  more  ser- 


42  AMERICAN    LITERATURE. 

viceable  in  his  own  way.  He  foresaw  the  vast  crowds 
of  American  children;  he  knew  that  the  integrity  of 
the  country  was  conditioned  on  the  intelligibility  of 
their  votes,  and  he  turned  his  back  to  England,  less 
with  indifference  to  her  than  absorption  in  his  own 
country.  He  made  a  speller  which  has  sown  votes 
and  muskets.  He  made  alone  a,  dictionary  which 
has  grown,  under  the  impulse  he  gave  it,  into  a 
national  encyclopedia,  possessing  an  irresistible  mo 
mentum.  Indeed,  is  not  the  very  existence  of  the 
book  in  its  current  form  a  witness  to  the  Americanism 
which  Webster  displayed,  only  now  in  a  firmer,  finer 
and  more  complete  form?" 

With  the  completion  of  his  Dictionary,  in  1828, 
the  author  considered  his  literary  work  done;  devoting 
his  time  thereafter  mainly  to  the  revision  of  his  early 
works.  The  last  labor  he  performed  was  the  revision 
of  the  Appendix  to  his  greatest  work,  and  the  addition 
of  a  few  hundred  words.  This  was  finished  about  the 
middle  of  May,  1843 — fifteen  years  from  the  date  of 
its  first  appearance.  A  few  days  later,  on  the  28th  of 
the  same  month,  full  of  years  and  honors,  and  re 
joicing  in  the  hope  of  a  blessed  resurrection,  he  passed 
away  in  the  eighty-fifth  year  of  his  age. 

As  a  philologist,  Noah  Webster  stands  pre-emi- 


LIFE.  43 

nently  alone;  and  though  others,  keeping  pace  with 
the  march  of  human  intelligence  in  all  directions, 
may  farther  develop  and  euphonize,  may  render  more 
rythmic  and  beautiful,  the  English  language,  no  man 
will  dare  contest  the  honor  due  him  for  the  funda 
mental  work  upon  which  we  are  rearing  the  imperish 
able  fabric  of  American  Literature. 


LIFE. 

Life  comes  unsought.     It  is  a  precious  gift 

From  One  who  wills  that  all  should  happy  be; 
It  is  a  leaf  from  an  undying  tree 

Which  into  nothingness  can  never  drift. 
'Tis  of  infinity — it  is  the  breath 
Of  the  Almighty  (so  the  Scripture  saith.) 

And  well  worth  living,  should  our  souls  agree 

With  the  fair  terms  proposed  for  you  and  me; 

Death  is  its  shadow,  and  a  mystery 

That  hangs  about  our  spirits  like  a  cloud, 

And  fills  us  with  vague  fears  of  grave  and  shroud, 

From  which  we  inly  shrink.     When  it  shall  lift 
This  glorious  theme  shall  all  our  thoughts  engage — 
That  we  are  heirs  to  such  a  heritage. 


44  WOMAN'S  DEFENSE. 


WOMAN'S  DEFENSE. 

Every  star,  near  and  far,  without  friction  or  jar, 

Has  its  sphere,  and  has  never  disgraced  it; 
But  if  one  once  should  fail,  order  could  not  prevail, 

Should  it  flee  from  where  God's  hand  had  placed  it. 

*  *  * 

When  fealty  failed  disorder  prevailed 

And  woman  was  first  to  begin  it; 
With  consummate  love  did  Adam  resolve 

To  follow  his  wife  at  the  risk  of  his  life, 
Of  the  world,  and  all  that  was  in  it. 
The  mouth  of  the  Lord  hath  spoken  the  word, 

Neither  woman  nor  man  can  disprove  it; 
Let  it  stand;  let  it  be;  "He  shall  rule  over  thee," 

Is  God's  law,  and  none  dare  to  remove  it. 

*  *  * 

But  woe  worth  the  day,  enlarging  her  sway, 

A  woman  transcends  her  dominion  ; 
For  honor  or  pelf  unsexing  herself, 

And  sets  'gainst  God's  law  her  opinion 

—[A.  J.  HOLT. 

The  poet,  philosopher  and  the  divine, 
From  "time  immemorial,"  have  tried  to  define, 
With  logic  they  deem  both  conclusive  and  clear, 
What,  in  the  day's  parlance,  is  called  woman's  sphere 

On  th'  north,  south,  east,  west,  it  is  hounded  by  Man, 
Say  they!  and  the  pages  of  Scripture  they  scan, 
And  in  tones  most  exultant  claim  God  gave  him  pow'r 
To  '''rule  over"  woman  in  earth's  morning  hour. 


WOMAN'S  DEFENSE.  45 

"It  is  written"  I  grant,  but  defy  them  to  show 
Where  God  said  'twas  RIGHT  (I  am  anxious  to  know) 
In  the  sense  it  is  used!  '  Oft  the  Scripture  we  wrest 
To  prove  what  we  wish — let  us  give  this  the  test. 

The  Testaments  truly  abound,  Old  and  New, 
With  what  man  HAS  done  and  what  he  SHOULD  do; 
But  never  once  mention  that  God  excused  sin, 
Tho'  they  do  tell  how  wayward  his  children  have  been. 

The  Lord  simply  deigned  His  own  prophet  to  be 
When  He  thus  said  to  Eve,  "He  shall  rule  over  thee!" 
For  only  He  knew  from  beginning  to  end, 
How  great  was  the  depth  to  which  man  would  descend! 

"He  shall  rule  over  thee!"  It  were  easy  to  prove 
The  sceptre  God  meant  to  be  wielded  is  LOVE; 
And  all  paradoxes  we  must,  if  we  can, 
Thus  dovetail  if  we  would  decipher  His  plan. 

. 

"He  shall  rule  over  thee!"     Earth  and  Heaven  rejoice 
When  in  protest  a  MAN  dares  to  lift  up  his  voice; 
While  he  clings  to  the  doctrine  (now  laid  on  the  shelf) 
That  the  wife  of  his  bosom's  a  part  of  himself. 


46  WOMAN'S  DEFENSE. 

"He  shall  rule  over  thee!"     0,  fair  daughter  of  Eve! 
Let  the  tongue  of  no  sophist  thy  proud  heart  deceive; 
To  rule,  as  men  use  the  term,  'were  an  offense 
'Gainst  Him  who  ne'er  meant  it  in  any  such  sense. 

True,  "offenses  must  come,"  Jesus  said,  but  we  know 
Those  by  whom  they  do  come  reap  a  harvest  of  woe; 
And  such  is  the  harvest  that's  now  coming  in, 
Or  I'm  too  obtuse  to  explain  all  this  din 

About  woman's  rights  and  her  wrongs  and  her  sphere, 
And  all  the  rest  of  it  we  constantly  hear, 
Until  it's  threadbare — till  the  cons  and  the  pros 
Have  verily  nothing  more  new  to  propose. 

"Shall  rule!"     What  a  coward  he  truly  must  be 
To  quote  this  to  one  he  deems  weaker  than  he! 
In  physical  force  this  is  true,  but  I  ween 
In  the  century  current  in  THOUGHT  she's  his  queen. 

Escaped,  like  a  bird,  lo!  she  spreads  her  light  wings, 
And  startles  the  world  so  divinely  she  sings. 
As  she  moves  to  the  place  by  her  Maker  designed, 
And  stands  by  man's  side  in  the  empire  of  Mind. 


WOMAN'S  DEFENSE.  47 

In  Literature,  Mathematics  and  Art, 

And  Science  abstruse  she  has  taken  such  part 

That  even  her  "lord"  is  beginning  to  feel 

That  in  her  he's  a  rival  well  worthy  his  "steel." 

And  yet,  when,  her  noblest  achievement  in  hand, 
The  world's  verdict  waiting  she  list'ning  doth  stand, 
His  qualified  praise  cuts  her  soul  like  a  fetter, — 
As  it  seems  to  imply  HE  could  do  so  much  better! 

But  let  us  shift  sides,  and  then  "argue  the  case 

Like  a  lawyer:"      Suppose  she's  abandoned  her  place, 

What  tempted  her  from  it?  and  who  is  to  blame 

If  she  HAS  snatched  the  key  to  the  temple  of  Fame? 

Does  he  shrink  from  the  issue?   Then  why  did  he  vex 
Her  spirit  by  drawing  a  line  at  her  sex, 
And  denying  her  that  which  he  claimed  as  his  right? 
Ah!  he  did  it  alone  by  the  virtue  (?)  of  MIGHT! 

And  if  she  has  wandered  away  from  her  sphere, 
(A  subject  involving  much  doubt)  it  is  clear 
When  the  force  is  removed  that  impelled  her,  why  then 
She  will  spring  to  her  own  native  orbit  again. 


48  WOMAN'S  DEFENSE. 

When  man  in  its  true  sense  shall  keep  the  command: 
"Love  your  wife,"  and  the  champion  of  woman  shall 

stand, 

This  unholy  war  'twixt  the  sexes  will  cease, — 
A  truce  be  declared  by  the  Angel  of  Peace. 

Aye,  when  he  shall  take  the  great  beam  from  his  eyes, 
The  cause  he  will  find,  with  the  gravest  surprise, 
That  opened  the  way  for  discussions  so  grim, 
Had  alike  its  Omega  and  Alpha  in  him! 

Howbeit,  he  never  has  questioned  HIS  place? 
But,  left  to  MY  pencil,  a  line  I  will  trace, 
And  by  a,  perhaps,  "new  departure,"  will  show 
'Twas  Adam,  NOT  Eve,  brought  about  human  woe! 

Had  Adam  been  standing  that  day  at  his  post — 
That  sorrowful  day  in  which  Eden  was  lost; 
Eve  might  have  been  saved  from  temptation  and  fall, 
And  sin  never  darkened  our  planet  at  all! 


MRS.    WELTHEA    BRYANT  LEACHMAN.  49 


MRS.  WELTHEA  BRYANT   LEACHMAN. 

"  Strange  that  we  should  slight  the  violet  till  the  lovely  flower  is  gone ; 
Strange  we  never  prize  the  music  till  the  sweet-voiced  bird  is  flown ; 
And  that  words  which  freight  our  memory  with  their  beautiful  perfume 
Come  to  us  with  sweeter  accents  through  the  portals  of  the  tomb." 

These  words  corne  to  me  with  unusual  force  this 
morning  in  connection  with  the  name  of  Mrs.  Welthea 
Bryant  Leachman,  of  Dallas,  whose  recent  death  has 
cast  a  gloom  over  many  a  heart  that  her  songs  were 
wont  to  soothe.  On  Christmas  Eve  of  1884,  I  came 
to  Dallas,  a  stranger.  A  year  later,  under  date  of 
January  1,  1886,  I  first  read  a  poem  from  the  pen  of 
this  gifted  woman,  entitled  "The  Passing  of  the 
Year."  I  at  once  said  to  a  friend  that  "  Dallas  has  at 
least  one  true  poet;"  but  I  could  scarcely  credit  the 
fact  that  I  had  lived  so  near  her  all  these  months  and 
not  heard  of  her.  It  seemed  strange  that  one  so 
gifted  should  be  so  little  known.  I  made  frequent 
inquiries  about  her,  but  could  learn  little  more  than 
that  she  was  a  resident  of  the  city,  and  sometimes 
contributed  to  the  local  press.  From  a  stray  copy  of 
the  "  Farm  and  Ranch "  I  learned  that  she  edited 
the  Household  Department  of  that  journal ;  and  also 


50        MRS.  WELTHEA  BRYANT  LEACHMAN. 

her  place  of  residence.  From  that  time  I  decided  I 
would  call  upon  her,  and,  if  possible,  secure  her  as  a 
regular  contributor  to  the  ''Lone  Star  Magazine;"  but 
I  postponed  the  visit  from  time  to  time  until,  alas, 
it  was  too  late.  Now  and  then  through  the  past  year 
the  melody  of  her  songs  has  reached  my  ear;  but  on 
February  3d  the  song  was  suddenly  hushed,  the  sweet 
lyre  unstrung,  and  the  gifted  poet  passed  into  the 
Land  through  whose  gates  no  one  whose  ear  is  not  at 
tuned  to  Song  shall  ever  enter. 

Yesterday  I  visited  the  stricken  home  to  gather 
such  items  of  interest  as  always  attach  to  the  home- 
life  of  the  true  poet.  A  shadow  hangs  over  the  pretty 
cottage,  nestled  away  in  a  quiet  street,  and  lingers  in 
the  heart  of  the  bereaved  household — a  shadow  that 
will  never  be  lifted  in  this  life,  though  under  the 
soothing  influence  of  the  great  healer,  Time,  the  ten 
derness-  of  the  wound  will  somewhat  abate.  But  hid 
den  away  in  the  heart  is  a  void  that  caiinot  be  filled 
— a  memory  sweeter  and  dearer  and  tenderer  than 
anything  life  can  offer;  while  a  hope,  born  of  sorrow, 
stretches  away  as  a  rainbow  of  promise  into  the 
beautiful  Beyond.  Here  and  there  were  pointed  out 
evidences  of  the  poet's  handiwork.  I  especially 
noticed  a  piece  of  unfinished  crochet  work;  and  an 


MRS.  WELTHEA  BRYANT  LEACHMAN.        51 

herbarium,  with  some  of  the  collections  not  yet  fas 
tened  to  the  leaves.  It  is  almost  filled,  and  contains 
a  great  variety  of  specimens,  many  of  them  gathered 
from  distant  places;  among  them  several  kinds  of 
field  ferns,  from  Block  Island  and  about  Boston. 
The  furniture  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  size  of 
the  rooms  and  general  appearance  of  the  cottage, 
and  everywhere  are  evidences  of  the  refined  taste  of 
the  poet.  In  conversation  with  Mr.  Leachman,  who 
seems  truly  inconsolable,  he  said  he  felt  completely 
broken  up  ;  that  time  did  not  lessen  his  consciousness 
of  loss,  adding,  "  If  she  had  been  only  an  ordinary 
woman,  with  ordinary  tastes,  I  think  I  could  have 
borne  it  better."  I  can  enter  into  this  feeling.  I,  too, 
once  had  a  dear  and  gifted  friend  called  away  in  the 
beauty  of  youth  and  intellectual  vigor,  when  the 
promise  of  fame — the  far-off  goal  of  ambition — was 
looming  up  in  the  distance.  She,  like  our  author,  was 
born  in  Texas ;  but  in  the  South  many  of  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  Song  die  young.  For  evidence  read 
the  "  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Texas."  Paul  H.  Hayne 
is  among  the  exceptions.  Contrast  these  with  the 
Northern  poets.  Literary  life  in  congenial  atmos 
phere — I  mean  among  appreciative  readers — is  con 
ducive  to  longevity.  Ah,  truly  God's  handiwork  is 


52  MRS.   WELTHEA    BRYANT    LEACHMAN. 

not  to  be  despised.  He  makes  the  Poet  and  places 
him  in  this  land  of  almost  tropical  beauty,  of  which 
he  sings  so  delightfully;  for  the  true  child  of  Song  can 
no  more  still  the  music  iri  his  breast  than  the  brook 
can  cease  to  flow  or  the  flowers  to  bloom.  The  song 
sings  itself,  but  it  will  not  do  such  prosy  work  as  feed 
and  clothe  the  singer ;  and  our  people  have  set  their 
affections  too  much  on  the  alluring  charms  of  Mam 
mon  to  leave  any  room  for  thought  of  the  song  bird 
that  is  helplessly  beating  its  wings  againet  the  cage 
and  sighing  for  freedom.  Truly,  it  does  seem  that 
Adversity  has  set  a  mark  upon  our  most  gifted  writers 
and  when  the  pent-up  song  does  burst  forth  it  comes 
to  us  full  of  pathos;  but  alas,  it  too  often  falls  on  un 
heeding  ears.  No  wonder  the  sensitive  spirit  droops 
under  such  surroundings,  and  that  the  great  Father 
reaches  down  and  takes  it  to  himself.  But  He  sends 
another  and  still  another,  and,  after  awhile,  I  think 
the  South  will  throw  off  her  yoke  of  bondage  to  Gold 
and  stretch  forth  her  hand  to  sustain  these  God-sent 
messengers. 

Welthea  Bryant,  a  distant  relative  of  William 
Cullen  Bryant,  was  born  at  Galveston,  Texas,  Decem 
ber  25,  1847.  A  short  time  afterward  her  parents 
moved  to  Corpus  Christi,  near  which  place  her  father, 


MRS.  WELTHEA  BRYANT  LEACHMAN.  '      53 

Major  Charles  G.  Bryant,  was  killed  by  the  Indians 
in  1848 — only  a  year  later.  Her  early  life  was  passed 
here  amid  somewhat  exciting  scenes.  As  poets  are 
born  such,  it  is  but  natural  that  the  poetic  faculty 
should  develop  early.  This  was  true  in  her  case, 
though  it  seems  she  wrote  nothing  worthy  of  preserva 
tion  until  she  was  about  fifteen  years  of  age.  In  1860 
she  was  sent  to  New  Orleans  to  school.  During  the 
blockade  she  escaped  from  the  city  and  was  placed 
under  the  care  of  an  aunt  in  Boston,  to  whom  she 
became  much  attached.  Their  affection  and  corre 
spondence  continued  through  her  life.  Miss  Bryant 
was  married  twice — first  to  a  Mr.  Graham,  in  1863. 
She  was  married  next  in  1875,  to  Mr.  J.  S.  Leachman, 
of  Dallas,  a  gentleman  of  taste  and  refinement.  She 
leaves  but  one  child,  a  fragile  little  boy  of  five  sum 
mers,  several  little  ones  having  preceded  her  to  the 
Spirit  world. 

It  is  with  reverent  fingers  I  turn  the  leaves 
of  her  scrap-book  to  glean  the  rich  gems  that  sparkle 
here  and  there  in  so  unworthy  a  setting — gems  worthy 
to  be  bound  in  clasps  of  gold.  It  is  not  classical 
learning,  nor  Shakesperean  style,  nor  aesthetic  culture 
that  makes  the  true  poet;  but  that  intangible  some 
thing  that  in  its  tender  pathos  appeals  to  every  heart, 


54  MRS.    WELTHEA    BRYANT    LEACHMAN. 

and  awakes  a  feeling  of  common  brotherhood.  This 
vein  characterized  Mrs.  Leachman's  earliest  published 
poems  and- at  once  attracted  the  favorable  notice  of 
the  critics  of  that  great  center  of  culture — Boston. 
"  Not  Dead,  but  Gone  Before."  is  worthy  the  author  of 
"  Thanatopsis,"  and  was  written  when  our  poet  was 
quite  young — little  older  than  was  Mr.  Bryant  when 
he  wrote  the  lines  which  have  wedded  his  name  to 
immortality.  I  reproduce  the  poem  in  full : 

"NOT  DEAD— BUT  GONE  BEFORE." 

They  press  around  me  in  a  glorious  band — 
Shadowed  upon  the  camera  of  thought  ; 

They  bend 

Unseen;  their  embassies  of  hand  to  hand 
And  soul  to  soul,  throng  in  unsought; 

And  friend 

And  foe  meet  and  embrace  and  glide  away, 
Performing  deeds  of  love,  nor  falter  by  the  way. 


A  sweeping  host — I  see  them  hurrying  by — 
No  star-crowned,  white  winged  IDLE  angels  they, 

But  souls — 

Souls  that  must  tireless  search  the  earth  and  sky, 
Eternity  and  time  and  dreamless  day, 

And  poles 

Of  other,  brighter,  holier  worlds  than  these, 
Beyond  our  summer  skies  or  summer  seas. 


MRS.  WELTHEA  BRYANT  LEACHMAN.        55 


Around  above  me,  and  the  air  is  full 
Of  guests,  plucked  from  the  highways  of  the  land, 

And  they, 

Fresh  from  the  glories  of  Bethsaida's  pool, 
'Mid  resurrection  of  soul,  heart  and  hand, 

For  aye 

Feast  from  the  tables  of  the  wondrous  Lamb, 
With  brow  serene  and  spirits  pure  and  calm 

The  friendless  and  forsaken — orphans  lone 

And  frail  hearts  that  have  bent  beneath  their  woe 

And  misery ; 

Stray  waifs  in  life; — mother  and  sire  and  son, 
Virtue  and  crime  and  innocence — and  lo ! 

Eternity 

Whispers  around  me  that  the  solemn  air 
Is  partly  mine,  for  those  I  love  are  there! 

Not  dead — but  gone  before !     A  little  while 
When  standing  on  the  brink  of  endless  day 

And  love, 

Unfelt,  their  gentle  touch,  unseen,  the!r  smile 
Shall  trace  beyond  the  shoals  of  doubt,  the  way 

Above; — 

Mayhap  some  little  babe  with  guileless  hand 
Will  catch  our  wakening  in  the  Summer  land! 

Not  dead — but  gone  before !     Ah !  dreamless  sleep ! 
Ah!  resurrection  from  the  silent  tomb 

To  Life  Eternal, 
Unveil  thy  mystery,  that  those  who  weep 

Shall  quick  embrace  thee,  so  their  souls  may  bloom 

In  bliss  supernal! 

Not  dead — but  gone  before!     A  peerless  band — 
The  Wisdom-seekers  of  the  better  land! 


56  MRS.    WELTHEA    BRYANT    LEACHMAN. 


Ah!  guardian  one  who  dwelleth  with  the  pure, 
Hymning  thy  glories  o'er  each  new  born  soul, 

I  plead; 
Teach  me  thy  simple  way, — unveil  the  lure 

Which  waves  of  doubt  and  fear  around  me  roll ; 

I  need 

Thy  grasp  upon  the  helm,  thy  wondrous  lore 
To  prove  THOU  ART  NOT  DEAD— BUT  GONE  BEFORE. 


Had  the  author  of  these  beautiful  lines  remained 
in  that  great  literary  centre,  under  the  shadow  of 
Harvard,  with  the  intellectual  atmosphere  pervading 
it,  and  with  the  healthful  encouragement  that  gives 
zest  to  earnest  effort,  strength  to  imagination,  and 
assists  in  developing  the  loftier  sentiments  of  the 
soul,  it  is  probable  she  would  have  taken  her  place 
before  the  world  as  one  of  the  finest  writers  of  the 
present  time.  Indeed,  I  think  if  her  poems  could  be 
published  as  the  literary  remains  recently  brought  to 
light  of  some  one  of  our  most  distinguished  authors, 
they  would  not  only  create  a  favorable  sensation 
among  the  critics,  but  would  doubtless  be  classed 
among  such  writer's  best  production;  not  that  the 
critics  are  at  fault,  but  that  the  tyrant  Circumstance, 
has  prevented  these  exquisite  gems  being  brought  to 
their  notice;  for  Circumstance  wields  a  sceptre  before 
which  the  millions  bow,  while  the  hearts  of  its  un- 


MRS.  WELTHEA  BRYANT  LEACHMAN.        57 

happy  victims  pine  in  secret  over  the  dream  of  what 
"  might  have  been." 

There  is  a  pathos  in  our  Poet's  song  which  tells 
that  the  deep  silences  of  her  breast  have  been  touched 
by  sorrow;  but  the  discipline  of  sorrow  is  sometimes 
necessary  to  the  development  of  true  genius.  It  is 
the  cry  of  the  bruised  spirit  as  it  "  passes  under  the 
rod,"  that  awakes  a  sympathetic  chord  in  the  great 
heart  of  humanity ; 

Immortal  and  pure,  methinks  that  Song 

Is  an  Angel  that  walks  the  world  of  men; 
And  every  emotion,  deep  and  strong, 

Breathes  of  her  presence,  herself  unseen; 
But  the  Poet  chosen  and  set  apart 

To  give  true  voice  to  this  sacred  guest, 
Must  feel,  if  he'd  stir  the  great  world's  heart, 

The  sting  of  the  thorn  in  his  own  breast. 

I  have  only  space  to  give  a  stanza  here  and  there 
from  her  exquisite  poems,  in  doing  which  I  am  fully 
conscious  that  I  cannot  do  the  author  justice,  as  one 
must  see  a  work  of  Art  in  its  entirety  to  truly  ap 
preciate  it.  Listen  to  the  plaint  of  the  mother-heart 
over  the  loss  of  one  of  her  nestlings  : 

"The  winds  sigh  on  thro'  the  languid  hours, 
And  the  moonbeams  silver  the  lea, 


58  MRS.    WELTHEA    BRYANT    LEACHMAN. 


And  the  eyes  we  loved  have  oped  on  a  land 

Far  over  Eternity's  Sea; 
The  frail  hand,  grasping  the  bending  oar, 

Has  stiffened  in  Death's  embrace, 
And  a  bark  swept  on  to  an  unknown  shore 

Where  we  worship  our  Father's  face; 
And  we'll  list  no  more  for  the  bird  like  voice 
Or  the  footstep  that  made  our  heart  rejoice." 

From  "  The  Hour  Glass,"  a  tender  little  poem  of 
seven  stanzas,  I  select  two  : 

"  Drop  by  drop  have  the  little  sands 
Run  down  the  glass  in  my  idle  hands; 
One  by  one  have  the  moments  flown. 
Till  the  hour  has  come  and  the  hour  has  gone; 
I  shift  the  motion,  and  down  they  go, 
Dropping  so  noiseless  and  sure  and  slow. 

"  Some  day  my  heart,  in  its  frame  of  clay, 
Shall  cease  to  beat,  and  the  light  of  day 
Will  come  no  more  to  my  weary  eyes, 
Nor  my  tired  lips  give  forth  smiles  or  sighs, 
And  the  red  drops  pulsing  within  my  veins 
Will  still  'neath  the  quiver  of  dying  pains." 

This  last  stanza,  so  full  of  premonition  and 
pathos,  comes  like  a  dirge  to  the  ear  to-day.  It  is 
dated  August,  1886,  less  than  a  year  ago. 

Among  the  many  literary  remains  before  me, 
there  are  several  poems  possessing  perhaps  more 
power,  reaching  greater  depths  and  loftier  heights, 


MRS.    WELTHEA    BRYANT    LEACHMAN.  59 

than  those  from  which  I  have  quoted,  though  not 
perhaps  more  beautiful  ;  but  fragmentary  quotations 
would  prove  inadequate  to  express  their  beauty,  and 
so  I  desist,  trusting  that  some  Mnd  hand  will  gather 
them  at  an  early  day  and  present  them  to  the  world 
in  a  handsome  volume.  Among  these  is  that  ex 
quisite  poetical  Address  to  the  Texas  Veterans,  which 
has  elicited  so  many  enconiums  from  the  Press.  Mrs. 
Welthea  F.  Snow,  of  Boston,  an  aunt  of  our  Poet, 
writing  to  Mrs.  Leachman's  brother,  Mr.  W.  N. 
Bryant,  of  Dallas,  says  : 

"  It  is  a  bitter  disappointment  to  me — her  un 
timely  death.  Her  talents  were  beginning  to  be 
recognized  both  North  and  South  as  brilliant  gifts, 
and  I  felt  both  pleased  and  proud  of  her — hoped  she 
would  make  her  mark  in  the  literary  world,  and 
honor  the  name  of  Bryant,  our  illustrious  predeces 
sor.  A  gentleman  friend  of  mine,  an  accepted  poet, 
to  whom  I  showed  her  poetic  'Address  to  the  Veterans 
of  Texas,'  said  :  '  Why !  this  is  worthy  of  the  name 
of  Bryant !  It  will  compete  with  his  word-pictures 
in  finish  and  beauty.'  But  she  had  limited  means 
and  opportunities  in  this  life.  Where  she  is,  there  is 
rest  for  the  weary  and  glorious  liberty — she  can  grow 
and  shine." 


60        MRS.  WELTHEA  BRYANT  LEACHMAN. 

Yes,  she  can  grow,  for  she  is  "Not  dead — but 
gone  before"  to  the  Land  of  Life  and  Light  and 
Song;  and  if  our  tears  fall  over  her  untimely  grave, 
let  them  fall  for  "ourselves"  who  are  left  to  loiter 
on  amid  the  shadows,  and — not  for  her. 

Another  appreciative  friend  writes  :  "  She  had 
genius,  and  with  happy  influences  and  better  sur 
roundings,  she  would  have  taken  high  rank  among 
literary  people  ;  as  it  was,  she  had  done  wonders. 
May  the  earth  lie  lightly  on  her  grave." 

So  far,  I  have  considered  Mrs.  Leachman  alone 
as  a  poet ;  but  while  her  genius  shines  more  re- 
splendently  in  this  field,  her  prose  sketches  sparkle 
with  happy  thought  and  beautiful  imagery.  Illustra 
tive  of  this  I  copy  a  part  of  a  letter  written  from 
Galveston  to  the  Household  department  of  the  Farm 
and  Ranch.  Standing  on  the  seashore  watching  the 
ships  sailing  away  from  the  fair  City  by  the  Sea,  she 
writes  : 

"  I  have  watched  them  sailing  on  and  on,  out  of 
sight,  fading  away  on  the  dim  distant  horizon ;  the 
star  of  hope  that  shone  so  bravely  above  them,  sud 
denly  went  down,  and  all  was  darkness  and  confusion 
and  despair.  Sailing,  sailing  away,  they  bore  all 
that  was  best  of  life,  and  love  and  hope,  and  youth's 


MRS.    WELTHEA    BRYANT    LEACHMAN.  61 

flowery  gems,  and  they  have  never  come  back  to  me. 
And  days  and  nights  for  many  years  I  looked  and  I 
searched  the  shore  in  vain  for  my  ships,  but  alas ! 
none  ever  came.  As  1  thought  of  the  treasures  they 
held,  dreamy  smiles  would  chase  over  my  lips,  and  I 
would  whisper  of  all  that  would  be  mine  '  when  my 
ships  came  in.'  But,  ah,  me!  they  have  never  come. 
Somewhere  else,  either  they  are  still  sailing,  sailing 
away,  seeking  gold  and  jewels  rare,  or,  with  battered 
hulk  and  tattered  sails,  they  are  plunging  through 
foaming  breakers,  and  slowly  yielding  the  last  rem 
nant  of  hope,  while  above  the  broken  mast  a  beauti 
ful  dove  is  sighing  as  if  saying  : 

'Leave  me  alone!  the  dream  is  my  own,  and  my  heart  is  full  of  rest.' 

And  so  it  is — full  of  rest!  They  are  gone,  but  some 
day  the  fragments  will  come  back.  I  see  plainly  the 
star  of  hope  still  shining,  and  my  heart  is  full  of 
rest." 

Yes,  her  •' heart  is  full  of  rest"  now.  She  has 
sailed  away  to  find  the  lost  ships,  full-freighted, 
safely  anchored,  and 

•'  No  storms  ever  beat  on  that  oeautiful  shore  in  the  far-away  Home  of 
the  Blest." 

But  the  songs  she  has  sung  will  remain  with  us. 
They  may  never  be  found  in  gilded  volume  in  the 


62  THE    LAND   OF    REST. 

world-renowned  library  ;  though  in  memory  of  the 
fact  that  she  was  a  daughter  of  Texas,  and  as  a 
tribute  to  the  merit  of  her  beautiful  Address  to  the 
Veterans,  the  people  of  the  State  should  see  that 
these  gems  are  enshrined  in  a  worthy  setting.  But 
should  this  not  be  done,  treasured  by  loving  hands, 
they  will  live  in  scrapbooks  to  soothe  weary  hearts  on 
through  the  years — precious  melodies  sweeping  out 
to  "  Eternity's  Sea." 


THE  LAND  OF  REST. 

There  is  a  country  just  beyond  earth's  shadows, 
Where  beauteous  trees  and  flowers  perennial  grow; 

And  thro'  its  sunlit  vales  and  grassy  meadows, 
Meandering  streams  of  living  waters  flow; 

There  pain  and  grief  no  more  disturb  the  breast — 

It  is  the  saint's  bright  home,  the  Land  of  Rest. 

Then  Christian- traveler  thro'  this  world  of  sorrow, 
Let  smiles  break  o'er  thy  face  instead  of  tears; 

The  night  will  ne'er  close  on  the  glad  To-Morrow, 
Whose  dawn  shall  usher  in  eternal  years; 

The  sun  of  life  but  fades  along  the  west 

To  rise  in  beauty  on  the  Land  of  Rest. 


THE    LAND   OF    BEST.  63 

Tho'  dark  the  way,  and  the  path  long  in  turning, 
And  tho'  thy  feet  are  tired  and  sandal- worn; 

And  tho'  thy  weary  heart  for  Home  is  yearning, 
And  tho'  thy  breast  by  many  a  pang  is  torn; 

The  Lord  is  leading  thee,  and  knoweth  best 

By  WHAT  WAY  thou  shouldst  reach  the  Land  of  Rest. 

"For  good"  remember,  "all  things  work  together" 
To  the  dear  children  of  the  Father's  love; 

And  accidents  can  ne'er  befall  them,  whether 
'Long  open  paths  or  thro'  dark  ways  they  move; 

They  are  His  care;  when  seeming  most  opprest 

Their  feet  still  tend  toward  the  Land  of  Rest. 

The  mother  even  may  forget  her  darling, 
But  O,  OUR  FATHER  ne'er  forgets  his  own; 

Tho'  lost  amid  dense  woods  or  pathless  jungles, 
Or  wandering  on  the  mountain  tops  alone; 

He  fain  would  clasp  them  to  His  loving  breast, 

And  HE  WILL  bring  them  to  the  Land  of  Rest. 

Some  may  plan  badly;  oft  "wood,  hay  or  stubble" 

The  place  of  grander  edifice  supplies; 
And  the  poor  builder's  heart  is  bowed  with  trouble 

That  his  life-structure  points  not  to  the  skies; 


64  SAVED. 

"These  works  will  all  be  burned" — nor  stand  the  test; 
"Saved  as  by  fire"  he'll  reach  the  Land  of  Rest. 

But  he  whose  will  is  lost  in  God's;  who  never 
Turns  to  the  right  or  left  along  the  way; 

Whose  "heart  is  fixed"  and  grateful  to  the  Giver 
Of  great  or  smaller  blessings — come  which  may; 

Will  have,  as  the  reward  of  faith  and  zest, 

ABUNDANT  entrance  to  the  Land  of  Rest. 

Then  Christian-traveler  thro'  this  world  of  sorrow, 
Let  smiles  break  o'er  thy  face  instead  of  tears; 

The  night  will  ne'er  close  o'er  the  bright  To-Morrow, 
Whose  dawn  shall  usher  in  eternal  years; 

Life's  cloud-dimmed' sun  but  fades  along  the  west 

To  rise  in  GLORY  on  the  Land  of  Rest. 


SAVED. 

Shipwrecked  and  cast  upon  a  barren  Land, 
Alone,  I  watch  the  earth  and  sea  and  sky; 
The  storm  still  rages  and  the  waves  beat  high, 
But  far  or  near  there's  nothing  greets  the  eye 
That  breathes  of  safety;  even  the  bit  of  strand 
Beneath  my  feet  is  simply  treach'rous  sand. 


WELCOME    TO   KENTUCKIANS.  65 

With  lifted  hands  I  wildly  beat  the  air, 
And  send  to  Heaven  an  agonizing  prayer; 

When  lo!  beyond  the  tempest  and  the  mist, 

A  stretch  of  open  sky,  like  amethyst, 
And  in  the  midst  a  beautiful  bright  star, 
Thro'  the  pure  ether  gleaming  from  afar, 

Shows  at  my  feet  a  ship,  with  sails  all  set, 

Steered  by  the  Pilot  of  Gennesaret. 


WELCOME  TO  KENTUCKIANS. 

[This  poem  appeared  in  the  Dallas  News  on  the  33d  of  October,  1890,  as 
a  greeting  to  the  writer's  compatriots  on  "Kentucky  Day"  at  the  fair.] 

Kentuckians!  We  welcome  you 

From  the  dear  home  afar; — 
Throned  in  Our  Country's  galaxy 

There  shines  no  brighter  star; 
Tho'  severed  long,  its  light  still  cheers, 
Undimmed  by  distance  or  the  years. 

But  while  'twixt  us  remains  a  tie 

The  years  can  ne'er  despoil, 
Kentucky  has  a  colony 

Growing  on  Texas  soil; — 


66  WELCOME   TO   KENTUCKIANS. 

Exiles  by  choice,  with  gladness  they 
Would  greet  you  on  this  glorious  day. 

Kentucky!  How  our  heartstrings  thrill 

At  mention  of  the  name! 
Far  as  the  English  tongue  is  heard, 

Extends  her  sons'  just  fame 
For  chivalry,  in  peace  or  war, 
And  daughters  lovely  past  compare. 

When  erst  along  our  hills  and  vales 

Sounded  war's  rude  alarms, 
Her  sons  were  ready  at  the  word 

To  buckle  on  their  arms; — 
To  the  fair  South  one  band  went  forth, 
One  joined  the  armies  of  the  North. 

And  it  seemed  meet  that  on  her  soil 

The  serried  hosts  divide, 
And  a  great  army,  brave  and  true, 

Enlist  on  either  side, 

Since  from  her  breast  the  Chiefs  were  sprung 
Whose  fame  is  spread  by  every  tongue. 

There  Lincoln,  who  the  Northland's  name 
And  honor  held  in  trust; 


WELCOME    TO    KENTUCKIANS.  67 

And  the  great  Davis,  by  their  birth, 

E'er  consecrate  her  dust; 
And  well  may  we  Kentuckians  boast 
Of  each — each  in  himself  a  host. 

While  yet  we  mourn  the  recent  loss 

Of  the  great  Southland  Chief, 
Time  for  the  martyred  President 

Has  modified  our  grief; 
Albeit  above  their  honored  graves 
The  same  bright  banner  lightly  waves. 

But  other  figures  proudly  stand 

Before  our  eyes  to-day — 
Blackburn,  Carlisle,  Knott,  Watterson — 

Compatriots  of  Clay; 
Whose  words  and  deeds  the  hopes  beget 
Kentucky's  star  shall  never  set. 

But  ere  this  orb  the  zenith  reached 

Another  had  its  birth — 
The  bright  Lone  Star,  whose  rosy  light 

Encompasseth  the  earth; 
And  whose  brave  sons,  a  gallant  band, 
Have  won  renown  in  every  land. 


68  A    RAINY   DAY. 

In  her,  behold  our  second  love — 

Texas!  by  every  mouth 
Proclaimed,  as  golden  crowned  she  stands, 

The  Empire  of  the  South; 
And  yet,  as  said  by  one  of  old, 
Of  her  "the  half  has  ne'er  been  told." 

Now,  once  again,  we  welcome  you 

From  the  old  home  afar; 
Our  Country's  brilliant  firmament 

Claims  not  a  brighter  star: — 
Shrined  in  our  hearts  it  fills  a  place 
Not  even  Texas  can  efface. 


A  RAINY  DAY. 

How  very  dreary  the  earth  is  looking  just  now! 
How  fitfully  the  clouds  sweep  across  the  heavens,  now 
bursting  forth  in  torrents,  now  distilling  a  gentle 
mist,  but  none  the  less  obscuring  the  beauties  of  the 
sky,  and  hopelessly  veiling  their  proverbial  silver 
lining.  And  yet,  I  can  recall  a  time  when  a  day  of 
rain  and  storm  came  like  a  ray  of  sunlight  into  my 
life,  breaking  its  monotony,  and  furnishing  a  respite 


A    RAINY    DAY.  69 

from  the  sometimes  wearisome  task  of  teaching  "  the 
young  idea  how  to  shoot" — a  day  of  rain,  when,  em 
broidery  in  hand,  I  could  sit  at  my  window,  and 
watch  the  changing  clouds,  and  dream — such  dreams 
as  only  come  once  in  a  life;  youthful  dreams,  with 
no  shadows  flitting  over  them  to  obscure  their  beauty; 
beautiful  dreams,  in  which  I  had  little  time  to  in 
dulge  in  my  chosen  avocation.  Still,  there  are  many 
pleasures  connected  with  this  noble  calling.  While  it 
is  true  that  one  often  meets  with  those  who  not  only 
expect  their  teacher  to  instruct  them,  but  to  learn  (?) 
them- — those  who  have  never  entered  even  the  vesti 
bule  of  STUDY,  nor  penetrated  its  twilight,  much  less 
stood  in  its  noontide  glare  and  beheld  the  bounteous 
intellectual  feast  there  spread; (a  sight  which  awakens 
in  the  aspiring  mind  a  perception  of  such  vast  possi 
bilities,  such  visions  of  the  attainable,  and  gives  it 
such  an  overwhelming  consciousness  of  its  impotence, 
in  the  short  span  of  this  life,  to  grasp  all  it  were  even 
possible  to  reach)  one  finds  others  walking  cheerfully 
along  the  paths  of  Knowledge,  drinking  of  every 
stream,  plucking  its  richest  fruits,  inhaling  the  fra 
grance  of  its  sweetest  flowers — their  minds  develop 
ing  and  expanding  as  the  vast  expanse  of  its  land 
scape  opens  up  before  them;  and,  nerved  with  the  re- 


70  A    RAINY    DAY. 

solve  which  makes  heroes,  they  place  their  mark  high 
on  the  scroll  of  Fame,  and  set  forward  with  deter 
mination  to  reach  it.  Do  we  wonder  that  they  suc 
ceed  ?  Why  should  we  ?  It  is  those  who  have  no 
object  in  view  that  faint  and  drop  by  the  wayside.  It 
is  those  who  have  no  goal  to  win  that  are  overcome 
by  the  noontide  heat. 

In  those  far-away  days — so  far  away  it  would 
almost  seem  like  a  century  to  a  young  girl  of  eighteen, 
if  counted  forward;  for  more  than  a  score  of  years 
have  numbered  their  fleeting  moments  on  the  dial  of 
life  since  then — I  particularly  recall  the  face  of  one 
little  girl,  Sarah  Hainelyn,  whose  love  of  books  was  a 
source  of  wonder  to  those  who  knew  her  surround 
ings.  Scarcely  ten  summers  had  passed  over  her 
golden  head;  or  rather,  I  should  say  winters,  for 
her  mother  was  a  confirmed  invalid,  and  her  father  a 
no  less  confirmed  drunkard;  and,  although  there  were 
older  children  in  the  family,  the  burden  of  the  house 
hold  rested  upon  her  young  shoulders.  Notwithstand 
ing  all  this,  and  the  straightened  circumstances  of  her 
life,  she  was  usually  first  in  the  class  room.  Always 
with  lessons  well  prepared,  she  braved  the  inclemen 
cies  of  the  seasons,  wading  through  frost  and  snow, 
with  bare  feet,  and  no  warp  to  shield  her  slight  form 


A    RAINY    DAY.  71 

from  the  bitter  cold  of  that  rigorous  climate,  she 
never  wearied  in  the  pursuit  of  knoweledge.  As  gold 
is  not  all  confined  to  the  mines,  but  is  sometimes 
found  in  unexpected  or  out  of- the- way  places,  so  rare 
jewels  like  this  are  sometimes  found  in  the  humblest 
stations  of  life.  She  seemed  called  and  chosen  and 
faithful  to  the  work  before  her,  and  I  trust  that  in 
some  one's  crown  oi  rejoicing,  in  the  great  Hereafter, 
"she  may  shine  as  a  star  forever  and  ever." 

A  rainy  day  I  How  it  stirs  old  memories,  and 
how  my  thoughts  have  wandered  !  But  Thought  at 
best  is  capricious  and  untamable.  And  then,  who  is  not 
glad  to  get  away,  if  only  in  dreams,  from  such  a  day 
as  this  ?  The  clouds  have  hung  over  us  until  even  a 
glimpse  of  the  sun  would  send  a  thrill  of  joy  through 
out  the  house.  We  scarcely  noticed  it  when  the 
whole  earth  was  bathed  in  its  golden  beams,  but  now 
we  truly  realize  that  "  blessings  brighten  as  they 
take  their  flight,"  and  are  ready  to  echo  the  senti 
ment  of  Tennyson,  that — 

"A  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things." 

Looking  through  the  clouds  that  have  enveloped 
us,  mentally  and  physically,  for  many  days,  we  are 
apt  to  conclude  that  earth  has  more  of  clouds  than 
clear  sky,  more  of  shadow  than  sunlight.  And  yet, 


72  WORDS   OF    JESUS. 

this  is  a  mistake.  There  are  more  bright,  beautiful 
days  than  days  of  rain,  morally  as  well  as  physically, 
and  we  must  take  life  as  it  comes.  We  must  walk  with 
Lazarus  and  the  publican  through  the  valley  of  Hu 
mility  and  Sorrow,  if  from  the  summit  of  Mount 
Nebo  we  would  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Promised 
Land. 


WORDS  OF   JESUS. 

"  "Pis  expedient  for  you  that  I  go  away;  " 

How  these  words,  with  their  tender  tone, 
Must  have  thrill'd  the  souls  of  the  faithful  few 
So  soon  to  be  left  alone. 

"  It  is  best  for  you,  for  the  world,  that  I 

Return  to  My  Father's  Home; 
1  tell  you  th'  truth — if  I  go  not  away 
The  Comforter  will  not  come. 

"  Because  I  have  said  these  things  to  you, 

Sorrow  hath  filled  your  heart; 
But  the  work  that  I  came  to  do  is  done; 
'Tis  my  hour — I  must  depart; 


WORDS    OF    JESUS.  73 

"  Yet,  Father,  if  poss'ble,  let  this  cup  pass! " 

(And  the  Only  Begotten  Son 
Sweat  drops  of  crimson;)  "Nevertheless, 
Not  Mine,  but  Thy  will  be  done." 

The  anguish  pass'd  with  these  trustful  words, 

And  the  swift-winged  Cherubim 
Came  down  the  blue  stairway  of  the  skies 

To  minister  unto  Him. 

And  th'  calmness  of  Heaven  soothed  the  breasts 

(Such  as  the  world  ne'er  knew) 
Of  his  sorrowing  friends  as  he  gently  said, 

''  But  My  peace  I  leave  with  you." 

"Not  as  the  world  (oh,  no,  thank  God!) 

Giveth,  give  I  unto  you; 
My  gifts  are  beyond  regret  or  recall; 
'Tis  the  Father's  will  I  do. 

"In'the  world  ye  will  tribulation  have," 

(But  your  hearts  with  this  peace  impearl'd, 
Will  be  strong  for  life's  conflict.)     "Be  of  good 

cheer — 
I  have  overcome  the  world!" 


COL.    JOHN    C.    M  COY. 


COL.  JOHN  C.  McCOY. 


We  sought  to  stay 
An  angel  on  the  earth— a  spirit  ripe 
For  Heaven ;  and  Mercy,  in  her  love,  refused ; 
Most  merciful  of  times  when  seeming  least; 
Most  gracious  oft  when  seeming  most  to  frown. 

— [POLIX>K. 


Speaking  from  a  large  observation  and  experi 
ence,  Horace  Mann  has  truly  said  that  "  Biography, 
especially  of  the  great  and  good  who  have  risen  by 
their  own  exertions  to  eminence  and  usefulness,  is  an 
inspiring  and  ennobling  study,  its  direct  tendency  be 
ing  to  reproduce  the  excellence  it  records."  With 
this  view  of  the  subject,  it  is  not  strange  that  no 
sooner  does  a  good  man  pass  from  the  stage  of  action 
in  this  life,  than  the  biographer  is  ready  with  his  pen 
to  catch  the  reflex  of  the  glory  which  crowned  his 
life,  and  trace  it  with  all  its  living  radiance  upon  the 
pages  of  history,  as  a  guide  to  others  who  would 
aspire  to  worthy  heights  in  the  intellectual  or  moral 
universe.  Indeed,  the  arena  upon  which  the  drama 
of  most  heroic  lives  is  enacted  is  too  narrow  to  com 
plete  the  mission  it  was  designed  they  should  fulfill, 


COL.  JOHN  c.  M'COY.  75 

without  the  aid  of  the  pen  and  press  to  place  the 
"  usefulness  of  their  examples  "  before  the  public. 

From  the  vast  amount  of  this,  the  "most  uni 
versally  pleasant  and  profitable  of  all  reading  "  con 
stantly  being  issued,  a  casual  observer  might  pro 
nounce  this  peculiarly  an  age  of  biography — an  age 
in  which  not  only  the  dead,  but  the  living  also,  share 
in  this  distinction.  Any  one  coming  before  the  world 
now,  as  a  representative  of  literature,  art,  science, 
oratory,  philanthropy,  the  drama,  or  as  an  illustra 
tion  of  the  "faith  that  works  by  love,"  or  in  any 
other  way  contributing  to  its  pleasure,  amusement  or 
edification,  at  once  awakens  in  the  breast  a  desire  to 
know  something  of  his  birth,  parentage,  surroundings 
and  private  life.  But  this  is  by  no  means  peculiar  to 
our  time.  Nearly  seventeen  centuries  before  the 
dawn  of  the  Christian  era,  when  David,  standing  be 
tween  the  armies  of  Israel  and  the  mighty  hosts  of 
the  Philistines,  and  scorning  the  heavy  armor  of  Saul, 
single-handed  slew  the  Chieftain  who  had  "defied  the 
armies  of  the  living  God,"  we  hear  the  King  of 
Israel  asking  Abner,  the  Captain  of  his  hosts,  whose 
son  the  stripling  is;  and,  not  satisfied  with  a  negative 
answer,  he  seeks  the  youth  himself,  and  asks,  "Whose 
son  art  thou?"  And  the  reply,  "I  am  the  son  of 


76  COL.  JOHN  c.  M'COY. 

Jesse,  the  Bethlehemite  "  demonstrates  that  then,  as 
now,  highest  worth  was  to  be  found  in  the  lowly 
walks  of  life.  We  do  not  wonder  at  the  question. 
The  heroism  of  that  act  stands  unparalleled,  and  has 
doubtless  served  as  an  inspiration  to  thousands,  where 
deeds  of  valor  were  to  be  done.  Nor  is  this  an  idle, 
but  rather,  a  commendable  curiosity.  We  find  this 
verified  in  the  fact  that  the  genealogy  of  the  most 
important  personages  mentioned  in  the  Divine  Re 
cord  is  given,  with  few  exceptions;  among  these,  that 
of  Elijah  the  Tishbite,  and  of  Melchisedec,  around 
whose  origin  is  spread  a  veil  which  eternity  alone  can 
lift.  And  so  when  those  whom  we  love  or  admire 
passes  from  the  visible  world  into  the  great  Beyond, 
as  a  last  tribute  to  their  memory  and  their  worth,  it 
is  with  confident,  yet  trembling  hands,  we  lift  the 
pall  from  their  sacred  Past,  and  with  reverent  fingers 
turn  the  pages  of  the  volume  written  to  its  close  amid 
scenes  perhaps  familiar  to  us. 

There  is  one  thought  impressed  upon  the  mind 
in  reviewing  the  actions  of  men  who  have  distinguish 
ed  themselves,  either  as  recorded  in  history,  or  as  ex 
hibited  in  person  or  in  our  midst — the  thought  that 
they  were  so  especially  adapted,  as  if  by  force  of 
destiny,  to  the  times  in  which  they  lived.  That 


COL.  JOHN  c.  M'COY.  77 

Circumstance  has  much  to  do  with  deciding  a  man's 
field  of  action  must  be  admitted,  but  one  who  has  at 
tained  the  full  stature  of  Christian  manhood  realizes 
that  there  is  a  Power  superior  to,  and  which  controls, 
even  Circumstance;  and  so  the  fact  remains  that 
when  a  great  work  is  to  be  done,  whether  that  of  dis 
covering  a  continent,  developing  the  resources  of  a 
wilderness,  founding  a  colony,  chaining  the  lightning, 
inventing  the  telegraph,  or  any  other  work  within  the 
compass  of  human  powers,  the  man  is  found  ready 
for  the  time  and  work.  We  find  this  illustrated  in 
Columbus,  through  whose  discovery  a  place  of  refuge 
was  prepared  for  the  oppressed  of  all  lands;  and  in 
Washington,  so  worthily  and  fittingly  called  the 
Father  of  his  Country,  since  he  spent  his  life  in 
paternal  guardianship  and  solicitude  for  the  land  to 
which  he  had  given  the  devotion  of  a  parent,  and, 
who  dying,  left  no  son  upon  whom  the  people,  as  an 
expression  of  their  deep  gratitude  to  himself  and  de 
votion  to  his  memory,  might  place  the  insignia  of 
royalty.  Franklin  and  Fulton  and  Stevenson  and 
Whitney  and  Morse,  and  many  others  whose  names  and 
works  time  fails  us  to  mention,  stand  before  the  world 
as  illustrious  witnesses  of  the  truth  that  a  Divine 
Architect  is  fitting  every  man  to  his  time  and  work. 


78  COL.  JOHN  c.  M'COY. 

And  so  in  a  narrower  but  perhaps  not  less  im 
portant  sphere  than  was  respectively  occupied  by 
those  whose  names  are  mentioned,  is  the  assertion 
again  verified  in  Col.  John  C.  McCoy,  whose  death,  on 
April  30,  1877,  cast  a  deep  shadow  over  the  city  so 
much  indebted  to  him  for  its  foundation,  development 
and  present  prosperity.  Col.  McCoy,  born  in  Clark 
county,  Indiana,  September  28,  1819,  was  of  Scotch- 
Irish  descent.  His  father  was  a  farmer,  and  from  an 
early  age  until  he  was  fifteen,  the  son  was  a  faithful 
laborer  on  the  farm,  during  which  period  we  have  not 
been  able  to  gain  any  information  regarding  his  edu 
cational  advantages.  But  at  the  expiration  of  this 
time  his  father  moved  to  Charleston,  and  he  entered 
the  Clark  County  Seminary,  presided  over  by  one  of 
the  finest  instructors  of  the  day.  He  made  rapid 
progress  in  his  studies,  and  a  year  later  was  matricu 
lated  at  Wilmington  Seminary,  of  which  his  brother, 
Isaac  McCoy,  was  President.  Three  years  in  school 
ending  his  career  as  a  student  of  text  books,  he 
entered  on  the  active  duties  of  life.  For  a  number  of 
years  he  was  variously  engaged,  accepting  employ 
ment  wherever  an  opening  occurred,  whether  as 
deputy  county  clerk,  enrolling  officer,  bookkeeper,  or 
in  any  other  capacity;  always  proving  himself  trust- 


COL.  JOHN  c.  M'COY.  79 

worthy  and  capable;  in  the  meantime,  in  the  inter 
vals  of  leisure  he  could  command,  pursuing  the 
study  of  law,  which  he  had  chosen  as  a  profession. 
In  1841  he  obtained  his  diploma,  and  was  enrolled  as 
counselor  and  advocate  in  Kentucky  and  Indiana. 
He  practiced  with  signal  success  for  about  three 
years,  when  his  restless  spirit,  pining  for  the  scenes 
of  excitement  incident  to  frontier  life,  he  decided  to 
accept  a  position  offered  him  as  sub-agent  and  sur 
veyor  for  Peter's  Colony  in  Texas;  and  on  the  12th  of 
December,  1844,  he  turned  his  face  toward  the  broad 
plains  which  were  to  be  the  theater  of  his  greatest 
privations,  labors  and  successes. 

Trusting  to  maps  and  charts,  sent  out  then  as 
now,  to  lure  the  unsuspecting  victim  into  unoccupied 
fields,  he  came  to  Dallas  to  find,  instead  of  the  well- 
built  town  so  beautifully  delineated  on  the  chart,  a 
single  log  cabin  occupied  by  a  recluse  whose  name, 
John  Neely  Bryan,  will  be  preserved  in  history  as 
that  of  the  first  settler  in  the  metropolis  of  Texas. 
He  was  dressed  in  buckskin  leggings,  his  feet  encased 
in  moccasins,  and  a  blanket  coat  made  in  what  was 
termed  high  water  style.  The  young  lawyer  received 
a  cordial  welcome,  but  to  one  possessed  of  refined 
tastes  and  accustomed  to  all  the  social  amenities  of 


80  COL.    JOHN    C.    M'COY. 

cultivated  society,  as  he  had  been,  it  must  have  been  a 
severe  disappointment.  His  great  soul,  however,  was 
equal  to  the  occasion;  and  we  find  him  entering  with 
zest  upon  his  new  sphere  of  duties. 

As  an  orator  it  is  said  by  one  who  has  heard  him 
from  the  forum  that  "  he  was  exceedingly  graceful  in 
his  delivery,  never  failing  to  entrance  by  his  culti 
vated  thoughts,  flowing  sentences  and  classical  allu 
sions,  all  those  whose  happy  privilege  it  was  to  hear 
him  "  But  the  secret  of  his  success  as  a  lawyer  lay  in 
the  justice  of  the  cause  he  would  advocate;  his  deep 
earnestness,  and  the  truthfulness  of  his  heart  as  ex 
pressed  in  his  words,  his  countenance  and  his  ges 
tures.  In  person  he  was  "  exceedingly  neat  and  even 
fastidious,  and  delighted  in  nothing  so  much  as  the 
simple  elegancies  of  life  that  add  convenience  and 
comfort  to  the  cheerfulness  they  afford." 

He  was  ever  a  friend  and  patron  of  literature  and 
literary  institutions;  and  from  the  establishment  of 
the  Dallas  City  Public  Library,  of  which  institution 
he  was  one  of  the  founders,  he  was  President  until  his 
death,  ever  contributing  freely  both  time  and  money 
to  its  maintenance;  and  the  badge  of  mourning 
adopted  by  its  members  on  his  death  attest  their 
consciousness  of  the  loss  they  have  sustained.  That 


COL.    JOHN    C.    M'COY.  81 

his  intellectual  "endowments  were  of  a  very  high  order 
is  shown  in  the  taste  and  judgment  displayed  in  the 
selection  of  books,  his  library  being  one  of  the  finest 
private  collections  in  the  State,  consisting  of  standard 
works  and  the  best  productions  of  recent  authors. 
One  has  said  of  him  that  "he  may  be  justly  regarded 
as  the  best  posted  scholar  in  the  classical,  as  he  is  in 
the  general,  literature  of  the  day,  anywhere  to  be  met 
with  in  this  section  of  our  State,  which,  considered  in 
connection  with  the  fact  that  he  had  passed  his 
palmiest  days  in  the  service  of  all  those  dangers, 
hardships  and  demands,  incident  to  frontier  life, 
must  reflect  additional  credit  upon  his  tastes,  his 
natural  endowments  and  his  attainments;  for  there 
was  a  time  running  over  many  years  of  his  life  when 
he  never  saw  a  book  or  newspaper,  yet  amid  all  these 
wild  scenes  and  dangerous  excitements  he  never  lost 
sight  of  the  Muses,"who  constantly  ministered  to  his 
thoughts;  and  in  his  own  words,  he  '  has  experienced 
his  greatest  pleasures  when  communing  with  the  stars 
as  he  lay  stretched  upon  his  single  blanket  on  the 
prairies;  and  in  his  travels  he  has  never  heard  any 
thing  so  grand  as  the  soft  winds  of  the  whispering 
forest,  or  seen  anything  so  pure  as  the  distilled  dews 
that  tremble  upon  the  grasses  of  the  boundless 


82  COL.  JOHN  c.  M'COY. 

plains.'"     As  so  beautifully  expressed  by  James  G. 
Percival,  he  realized  that 

"The  world  is  filled  with  poetry — the  air 
Is  living  with  its  spirit;  and  the  waves 
Dance  to  the  music  of  its  melodies, 
And  sparkle  in  its  brightness;   earth  is  veiled 
And  mantled  with  its  beauty;  and  the  walls 
That  close  the  universe  with  crystal  in 
Are  eloquent  with  voices  that  proclaim 
The  unseen  glories  of  immensity, 
In  harmonies  too  perfect  and  too  high 
For  aught  but  beings  of  celestial  mould, 
And  speak  to  man  in  one  eternal  hymn 
Of  fadeless  beauty  and  unyielding  power.' 

Col.  McCoy  was  married  in  1851  to  Miss  Cora 
McDermett  whose  father  had  emigrated  from  Penn 
sylvania  to  Texas  in  1846.  The  marriage  was  an  ex- 
ceptionably  happy  one,  and  of  their  home  it  has  been 
said  that  it  ''was  the  home  of  gayety  and  mirth  and 
pleasure,  and  was  frequented  by  those  who  loved  to 
steal  away  from  the  cares  of  busy  life,  and  for  an 
hour  to  realize  that  the  world  is  still  beautiful,  not 
withstanding  the  trials  that  sometimes  overtake  the 
toilers  in  its  active  scenes."  But  human  joy  is  ever 
evanescent.  Scarcely  two  years  passed  over  this 
happy  home  when  the  young  wife,  in  the  first  joy  of 
motherhood,  was  laid  to  rest,  and  beside  her  the 


COL.  JOHN  c.  M'COY.  83 

sweet  unconscious  babe  thai  was  destined  to  never 
know  the  joys  or  the  sorrows  of  this  life.  Through 
all  the  years  that  passed  over  his  head  leaving  their 
traces  on  his  silken  hair,  and  on  the  yielding  and 
venerable  form,  his  heart  remained  true  to  its  one 
great,  imperishable  love,  and  manifested  its  devotion 
to  its  object  in  the  tender  care  bestowed  on  the  six 
orphaned  brothers  and  sisters  of  his  wife,  whom  he 
reared  and  educated  at  his  own  expense,  and  fitted 
for  spheres  of  usefulness.  And  it  may  be  that  the 
unbounded  love  he  had  for  children,  and  which  found 
expression  in  so  many  tender  ways,  especially  in  the 
joyous  Christmas-times,  and  which  was  extended  to 
all,  irrespective  of  caste  or  social  condition,  had  its 
birth  in  the  grave  of  the  little  one  laid  to  rest  under 
the  daisies  so  many  years  ago;  while  the  unobtrusive 
charity  so  earnestly  commended  by  the  Master  when 
he  said  "Let  not  the  left  hand  know  what  the  right 
hand  doeth,"  which  he  so  freely  dispensed  in  quiet 
ways  and  on  deserving  objects,  had  its  roots  in  the 
stream  of  sorrow  sprung  so  long  ago  in  his  own 
sympathizing  heart. 

But  the  springs  of  joy  and  sorrow  flow  side  by 
side  in  the  human  breast,  and  in  his  social  life  Col. 
McCoy  was  always  cheerful;  and  from  the  time  the 


84  COL.  JOHN  c.  M'COY. 

religious  side  of  his  character  was  developed,  about 
seven  years  ago,  his  life  was  one  of  trust  and  perfect 
rest.  Such  a  life  as  his  is  rarely  lived  out  in  a  com 
munity — so  full  of  years  and  dignity  and  usefulness; 
with  so  few  blemishes,  even  before  Religion  had 
traced  its  benign  and  radiating  features  upon  his 
genial  spirit.  He  passed  away  when  a  field  of  labor, 
whose  boundaries  lay  beyond  our  sight,  seemed  out 
stretched  and  awaiting  his  ever  willing  and  ever  faith 
ful  hands;  and  at  a  time  when,  as  his  pastor,  Rev.  R. 
T.  Hanks,  so  truly  said,  he  was  so  much  needed,  we 
could  scarcely  believe  he  could  die.  And  could  the 
prayers  and  tears  of  his  friends  have  availed,  his 
place  among  us  would  not  be  vacant  now  ;  but  the 
great  Arbiter  of  human  destiny  knows  best — 

"The  Christian  cannot  die  before  his  time; 
The  Lord's  appointment  is  the  servant's  hour." 

The  character  for  generosity  and  kindliness  of 
heart  which  he  eminently  sustained,  is  beautifully 
illustrated  in  the  incident  or  two  here  given  :  On 
their  way  from  Indiana  to  their  point  of  destination 
in  this  State,  after  leaving  Galveston  and  traveling 
some  distance  by  a  rude  conveyance,  one  of  the  party 
to  which  Col.  McCoy  belonged  was  taken  dangerously 
ill  and  had  to  be  left  at  a  house  by  the  wayside.  Be- 


COL.  JOHN  c.  M'COY.  85 

fore  parting  from  him  Col.  McCoy  gave  him  the  last 
money  he  had — fifty  cents;  adding  such  words  of  en 
couragement  as  he  could  under  the  circumstances. 
There  was  a  young  lady  at  this  house;  and  he  told 
the  sick  man  that  he  would  get  well,  marry  her  and 
become  a  rich  planter.  The  young  man  was  exceed 
ingly  offended  at  such  jesting  at  a  time  when  he  be 
lieved  himself  at  the  very  point  of  death,  and  ex 
pressed  himself  so  in  language  much  more  emphatic 
than  elegant.  The  evident  intention  of  Col.  McCoy 
was  to  arouse  the  invalid  from  a  state  of  despondency, 
in  which  generous  design  he  was  doubtless  successful; 
and  the  sequel  demonstrates  the  correctness  of  his 
thoughtless  prophecy — the  gentleman  got  well,  mar 
ried  the  young  lady,  became  a  wealthy  planter,  and, 
years  after,  was  honored  by  being  elected  as  a  repre 
sentative  to  the  Legislature.  The  second  incident  is 
this  : 

Soon  after  his  death,  a  woman  from  the  country 
called  at  the  office  of  Capt.  McCoy,  the  nephew  and 
partner  of  the  late  Col.  McCoy.  She  said  that  some 
time  ago  she  had  a  case  in  court,  biat,  not  having  the 
ability  to  employ  an  attorney,  when  her  case  was 
called  she  appeared  without  any  one  to  advocate  her 
claims,  when  Col.  McCoy  volunteered  his  services 


86  COL.  JOHN  c.  M'COY. 

and  gained  the  case,  the  verdict  being  rendered  in  her 
favor.  She  seemed  deeply  grieved  at  her  benefactor's 
death,  and  said  that  she  would  ever  hold  him  in 
grateful  rememberance.  As  an  evidence  of  the 
sincerity  and  unobtrusiveness  of  such  kindly  deeds 
his  best  friends  knew  nothing  of  this  last  circum 
stance  till  since  his  death,  when  the  recipient  of  his 
kindness  related  it.  But  his  deeds  of  love  are  now 
done — "he  rests  from  his  labors  and  his  works  do  fol 
low  him." 

At  the  time  of  his  death  Col.  McCoy  was  chair 
man  of  two  deliberative  bodies  or  committees  ap 
pointed  by  the  Church  to  look  after  the  interests  of 
the  new  house  of  worship  of  the  First  Baptist  Church 
of  Dallas,  then  in  the  process  of  erection;  and  was 
also  teacher  of  an  interesting  class  of  girls  in  the 
Sabbath  School.  The  floral  offering  made  by  these 
girls  to  decorate  his  grave  was  a  tender  tribute  to  his 
memory;  while  the  honorable  position  he  had  at 
tained  in  the  benevolent  orders  of  the  State — the  Ma 
sonic,  Knight  Templar  and  others;  the  number  of 
members  of  these  respective  fraternities  from  a  dis 
tance  who  were  present  to  take  part  in  the  obsequies, 
together  with  the  large  assemblage  of  the  citizens  in 
attendance  on  the  imposing  ceremonies  at  the  church, 


THE    GIFT    RECLAIMED.  87 

attest  the  high  esteem  in  which  he  was  held  by  all 
classes. 

The  scene  is  closed  upon  a  noble  life,  the  curtain 
lifted  between  the  Seen  and  Unseen,  and  the  vener 
able  form  has  passed  into  the  mystery  of  the  Un 
known  Country  toward  which  we  are  all  moving. 
But  he  went  not 

"Like  the  quarry  slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon;  but  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approached  his  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
Around  him  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 


THE  GIFT  RECLAIMED. 

[These  lines  are  designed  to  keep  in  rememberance  some  of  the 
sweet  sayings  of  little  Johnny  C.  Taggart,  grand-nephew  and  name 
sake  of  Col.  John  C.  McCoy.] 

From  the  Court  of  Love,  one  gladsome  day, 
A  beautiful  Angel  bent  his  way 
Toward  the  earth;  and  to  his  breast 
A  baby-cherub  was  lightly  prest. 

Anon  he  entered  a  lovely  home 

Where  the  door  ajar  seemed  beck'ning,  Come! 

And  laid  the  little  one,  pure  and  fair, 

In  the  arms  of  a  mother  waiting  there. 


THE    GIFT    RECLAIMED. 

For  three  short  years  on  a  human  breast 
This  child  of  the  skies  was  soothed  to  rest; 
But  weary  and  sick  one  July  day 
On  a  bed  of  pain  the  little  one  lay. 

The  mother,  her  bosom  all  athrill, 

And  her  very  heart  beats  almost  still, 

Bent  near  and  prayed  the  little  one  tell 

"  What  he'd  do  if  God  didn't  make  him  well." 

And  now  his  beautiful,  cheerful  faith, 
Exalts  him  above  the  fear  of  death; 
And  into  his  eyes  the  glad  light  springs 
As  he  answers,  "Jesus  will  give  me  wings! 

"And  Mamma,  in  that  bright  world  of  joy, 
Will  Uncle  Mac  know  your  little  boy? 
I  shall  know  him  by  his  snow-white  vest, 
And  the  whiskers  flowing  over  his  breast!" 

Ah!  little  thought  they  who  bent  to  hear 
The  little  "white  wings"  were  quite  so  near; 
But  that  eventide  he  took  his  flight 
To  his  native  realm  of  love  and  light. 


THE    GIFT    RECLAIMED.  89 

As  near  he  drew  to  the  pearly  gate, 
Where,  with  folded  wings,  the  sentries  wait, 
A  smile  of  ineffable  brightness  spread 
His  pale  face  o'er,  and  the  sweet  lips  said  : 

"Look,  mamma!  papa!"     The  clear  blue  eyes 
Had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Paradise 
Which  stretches  away  beyond  the  Blue — 
The  home  of  the  pure  and  good  and  true. 

While  one  little  hand  the  bosom  prest 
Where  the  baby-head  was  wont  to  rest, 
The  other  swept  back  the  viewless  screen 
Which  veils  the  beauties  "eye  hath  not  seen." 

When  into  his  heart  the  sad  thought  crept 
Of  the  pain  of  leaving  those  who  wept, 
His  child-faith  triumphed  in  the  refrain  : 
"You'll  all  come,  too!" — yes,  they'll  meet  again. 

And  then  an  Angel,  veiled  in  the  mist, 
Swept  down,  by  the  heavenly  breezes  kiss'd, 
Caught  the  darling  up  past  the  realm  of  air, 
And  left  but  the  cold-clay  garments  there. 


90  SUNLIGHT   AND    SHADOW. 

In  the  stricken  home  is  an  empty  chair, 
But  a  seat  is  filled  in  a  Home  more  fair; 
And  if  the  earth- song  has  lost  a  tone, 
The  music  of  Heaven  has  sweeter  grown. 

But,  Mother!  albeit  the  coming  years 
Stretch  away,  away  'neath  the  clouds  and  tears, 
An  access  of  joy  with  thy  grief  is  given — 
Thou'rt  mother  NOW  of  a  child  in  Heaven. 


SUNLIGHT  AND  SHADOW. 

How  fitfully  the  sunlight  atid  shadow  chase  each 
other  across  the  pathway  of  life  ;  now  all  hope,  again 
all  cloud  and  darkness.  Yesterday  the  whole  world 
seemed  flooded  with  light.  No  cloud-dimmed  rays 
struggling  through  the  mists  of  earth  suggested  a 
thought  of  sorrow.  Rivulets  of  pleasure  seemed 
sweeping  outward  to  an  ocean  of  joy.  Hope  gave 
wing  to  imagination,  while  thought  wandered  far 
away  into  the  unexplored  realm  of  the  To-Come.  0 
bright  yesterday  !  Sweet  respite  from  the  realities  of 
life,  how  I  love  to  recall  thy  fruition  and  thy  promise! 
Well  is  it  for  us  that  the  heart  has  its  resting  places 


SUNLIGHT    AND    SHADOW.  91 

along  the  highways,  where  it  may  gather  strength  for 
its  course  through  the  sands  of  the  desert  and  the 
darkness  of  the  valley,  for  we  may  be  sure  they 
stretch  away  in  the  distance.  Ah!  happy,  happy 
yesterday,  when  song  was  on  the  lip,  music  in  the 
heart! 

But  to-day — ah  to-day  !  If  there  is  song  or 
music  in  the  heart  it  is  very  sad.  A  shadow  is  rest 
ing  there.  The  tardy  light  breaking  through  a  leaden 
sky  seems  to  reveal  the  clouds  rather  than  the  glories 
of  the  day.  Hope  has  folded  her  wings  and  Memory 
wanders  amid  the  shadowy  and  sorrowful  paths  of 
auld  lang  syne ;  for,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  we 
seldom  live  in  the  present.  It  is  hope  and  memory — 
yesterday  and  to-morrow — that  make  up  the  sum  of 
life,  that  fill  our  hearts  and  people  our  dreams,  while 
to-day  stands  as  a  cipher  on  the  dial  of  the  years. 

An  undulating  landscape  of  hill  and  valley,  clear 
stream  and  muddy  brook,  ever  reaches  out  toward 
the  unexplored  future,  while  a  changeful  sky  of  cloud 
and  sunlight  hangs  over  the  present.  Now  we  are 
rocked  upon  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  while  the  angry 
storm  sweeps  around  us;  anon,  the  calm  of  a  summer's 
morning  embalms  the  spirits  and  rests  like  a  benedic 
tion  upon  the  life.  In  his  "Dream  Life"  Mitchell 


92  SUNLIGHT    AND    SHADOW. 

beautifully  says:  "  These  cloud  drifts  float  eternally, 
and  eternally  change  their  shapes  upon  the  great 
over-arching  sky  of  thought.  You  may  seize  the 
strong  outlines  which  the  passion  breezes  of  to-day 
shall  throw  into  their  figures,  but  to-morrow  may 
breed  a  whirlwind  that  will  chase  swift  shadows  over 
the  heaven  of  your  thought,  and  change  the  whole 
landscape  of  your  life."  And  it  is  well.  This  constant 
drifting  gives  us  glimpses  of  the  cerulean  sky  that  is 
ever  bending  above  us,  though  often  obscured;  and 
permits  us  now  and  then  to  catch  a  vision  of  the 
jasper  walls  that  rise  beyond.  In  our  fallen  estate  we 
cannot  appreciate  undimmed  splendor,  unbroken  rest, 
constant  calm,  eternal  peace.  It  is  only  the  contrast 
that  enables  us  to  enjoy  our  blessings.  Human 
nature  becomes  tired  of  inactivity,  satiated  with 
pleasure.  One  must  be  weary  to  enjoy  rest,  hungry 
to  enjoy  food — must  have  known  sorrow  to  fully  ap 
preciate  the  quiet  pleasures  of  life.  And  so  we  must 
not  despair,  even  when  enveloped  in  clouds.  The  sun 
shines  brightly  beyond  and  the  clouds  will  lift  "  by 
and  by."  True,  it  may  not  be  in  this  life;  some  of 
earth's  children  walk  down  to  the  brink  of  the  River 
under  the  clouds,  but  we  must  know  that  He  who 
"  knoweth  our  frame"  knoweth  also  what  discipline  is 


TO    A    SKEPTICAL    STUDENT.  93 

best  for  us,  and  that  it  is  our  Father's  hand  that  is 
guiding  us  all  the  while.  Vegetable  life  requires  the 
darkness  as  well  as  the  light,  some  forms  of  vegeta 
tion  even  developing  best  in  shadowy  places.  In  like 
manner  there  are  those  who  develop  best  under  the 
clouds  of  adversity,  the  full  tide  of  prosperity  tend 
ing  to  dwarf  rather  than  promote  that  higher  life 
into  which  it  is  His  will  we  shall  enter  when  we  leave 
the  chrysalis  of  clay  through  which  we  are  develop 
ing  for  eternity.  Then,  welcome  sunlight!  welcome 
shadow !  if  they  serve  to  bring  us  nearer  Him  who 
came  to  open  a  way  through  the  drifting  clouds  of 
earth  to  the  land  where  the  shadows  shall  forever  flee 
away — to  the  city  whose  "  gates  shall  not  be  shut  at 
all  by  day,"  "  and  there  shall  be  no  night  there." 

TO  A  SKEPTICAL  STUDENT. 

Knowledge,  tho'  grand,  can  never  satisfy; 

But  0 !  my  doubting  friend,  there  is  a  Power 
Can  lift  thy  aspirations  to  the  sky, 

And  give  thee  comfort  in  thy  darkest  hour. 
And  while  thou  drinks't  of  the  "Pierian  Spring" 

Which  for  thy  thirsting  MIND  doth  freely  flow, 
May  thy  immortal  SPIRIT  to  HIM  cling, 
.   Whom  it  were  highest  wisdom  thou  shouldst  know. 


94  GETHSEMAXE. 


GETHSEMANE. 

The  heart  hath  its  own  Gethsemane, 

Where  it  boweth  low  in  prayer; 
And  whether  it  find  it  soon  or  late, 

'Twill  find  it  sometime,  somewhere. 

'Tis  found  in  the  way  that  leads  to  Christ, 

A  garden,  serene  and  still, 
Where  the  soul  must  struggle  as  did  its  Lord, 

Ere  to  God  it  yields  its  will. 

Aye,  it  lies  just  under  the  cross,  where  He 

Surrendered  his  life  one  day; 
And  all  who  enter  the  "Father's  House" 

Must  verily  pass  that  way. 

'Tis  a  lonely  place;  and  each  alone 
Must  tread  where  its  shadows  lower; 

In  his  agony  even  Jesus'  friends 

Could  not  "watch  with  him  one  hour!" 

Thy  paths  are  safe,  0,  Gethsemane! 

And  can  never  lead  astray; 
For  whoso'  walks  with  the  Crucified 

Finds  the  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way. 


GATHER   THEM    IN.  95 

i 


GATHER  THEM  IN. 

[  God  has  called  scores  upon  scores  of  our  noblest  sons  and  daughters 
to  serve  Him  and  spread  abroad  His  blessed  gospel  in  heathen  lands,  many 
of  whom  are  still  with  aching,  longing  hearts,  and  cannot  go  because  we 
have  not  furnished  the  means  to  send  them.— RET.  A.  T.  HAWTHOKNE.] 

Away  in  earth's  wilderness,  still,  we  are  told, 

There  are  thousands  of  children  astray  from  the  fold, 

Exposed  on  the  mountain  to  hunger  and  cold, 

Or  athirst  in  the  desert  of  Sin! 
While  God's  own  embassadors  stand  at  our  gate, 
And  for  proper  equipment  most  patiently  wait — 
Let  us  arm  them  in  haste,  lest  they  be  too  late 

To  gather  the  little  ones  in. 

Tho'  the  desert  is  lonely,  the  mountain  so  wild, 
Their  false  show  the  dear  children's  feet  have  beguiled ; 
And  yet  there's  no  rest  for  the  heart  of  a  child 

On  the  mount,  in  the  desert  of  Sin. 
But,  0,  in  the  fold,  with  the  tenderest  care, 
There  is  room  for  these  lambs,  there's  food  and  to 

spare, 
And  the  Good   Shepherd's  waiting  to  welcome  them 

there — 

Let's  send  out  and  gather  them  in. 


06         "TAKE  NO  THOUGHT  FOR  THE  MORROW.' 


'TAKE  NO  THOUGHT  FOR  THE  MORROW." 

Oft  there's  song  upon  the  lips  or  music  in  the  heart 
That  doth  move  in  rythmic  measure  to  a  melan 
choly  air; 

When,  instead  of  notes  of  gladness, 
There's  a  minor  tone  of  sadness 

Floating  round  us  and  about  us,  and  the  world 
seems  full  of  care. 

And  there's  "sickness  of  the  heart,"  born  of  the 

'•hopes  deferred," 
Too  subtle  in  the  language  of  the  earth  to  be 

express'd; 

When  a  brooding  on  the  morrow, 
Half  unconciously  we  borrow 
All  the  anguish  of  an  evil  that  may  never  thrill 
the  breast! 

Oh!  the  weary,  weary  days,  and  the  nights  of 

wretchedness, 

When  awake  upon  our  pillow,  back  and  forth  we 
moan  and  toss; 


DAY    DREAMS.  97 

The  while  our  eyes  grow  tearful 
And  our  spirit  shrinks  back,  fearful 

Of  the  ghosts  that  haunt  the  bridges  we  may 
NEVER  have  to  cross! 

But  methinks  a  lovely  plain  would  e'er  spread 

before  our  feet, 
If  we  would  but  heed  this  message — sweet  and 

tender  beyond  price: 
"Take  no  thought  for  the  to-morrow, 
['Tis  the  keynote  of  most  sorrow,] 

Since  "for  each  day  the  evil  that  it  bringeth 
will  suffice." 


DAY  DREAMS. 

It  is  not  without  a  purpose  that  the  bright  visions 
which  come  to  us  in  our  realistic  life  are  given. 
Though  they  may  be  dispelled  and  we  left  to  grope 
our  way  in  darkness,  they  lend  us  courage  while  they 
last,  and  point  us  on  toward  the  possibilities  of  the 
future.  It  is  the  dreamer  who  succeeds  in  life.  He 
who  has  no  aspiration  beyond  the  present  will  never 
obtain  the  goal  made  possible  for  him.  It  is  he  who 


98  DAY     DREAMS. 

lets  his  dreams  hover  around  the  topmost  round  of 
the  ladder,  but  is  content  to  climb  step  by  step,  who 
makes  the  ascent  complete.  Should  he  look  down 
from  any  other  point,  he  becomes  giddy,  his  body 
sways,  and  danger  lurks  about  him;  but  when  once 
his  feet  are  firmly  planted  at  the  top;  when  once  he 
takes  in  the  exhilarating  draught  of  the  pure,  serene 
atmosphere  of  success,  he  can  calmly  survey  the  con 
quered  world  at  his  feet.  He  sees  the  dangers  through 
which  he  has  passed,  the  difficulties  he  has  surmount 
ed,  by  ever  having  his  eyes  fixed  at  the  top; — fixed  on 
the  zenith  star  of  his  ambition.  It  is  this  that  has 
given  him  hope,  and  faith,  and  courage.  True,  the 
brightness  of  this  star  may  sometimes  have  been  ob 
scured;  but  he  knew  the  star  was  there;  for,  it  is  a 
fixed  star,  though  he  perchance  was  not  in  a  posi 
tion  to  bask  in  its  beams.  When  we  look  out  on  the 
clear  noon-day  heavens,  no  stars  are  to  be  seen;  but 
in  the  calm  depths  of  some  pure  fountain  we  see  their 
reflection;  and  we  know  the  sky  is  not  starless — our 
vision  is  simply  finite. 

Ah!  truly  our  lives  are  rounded  into  completeness 
through  the  influence  of  our  dreams.  There  come 
times  when  Faith  seems  dead,  the  star  of  Hope 
set;  and  our  hands  drop  nerveless  at  our  side.  Sud- 


DAY     DREAMS.  99 

denly,  in  the  form  of  a  day  dream,  a  Bow  of  Promise 
spans  our  mental  sky,  and  we  rise  above  the  clouded 
atmosphere  that  has  surrounded  us,  to  the  clear 
heavens  which  encircle  the  world  of  Success,  and  with 
renewed  courage,  walk  bravely  on. 

We  are  all  dreamers.  The  gladsome  smile  break 
ing  over  the  face  of  the  little  one  upon  its  mother's 
knee,  attests  the  fact  that  its  infantile  vision  is  reach 
ing  out  into  unseen  vistas.  The  child  has  dreams  of 
the  unexplored  realm  of  manhood  or  womanhood  to 
which  Hope  lends  many  a  brilliant  hue.  The  old 
have  dreams;  but  their  dreams  are  of  the  past,  over 
whose  landscape  sunshine  and  shadow  have  chased 
each  other.  Their  memories  are  teeming  with  forms 
and  faces,  now  chilled  and  faded  by  the  blasts  of 
life's  autumn,  or  silently  sleeping  in  some  quiet  Cave 
Hill  or  Greenwood  The  mind  of  the  poet,  the 
painter,  or  sculptor,  is  filled  with  beautiful  pictures, 
such  as  the  common  eye  may  not  look  upon.  The 
youth  has  dreams,  when,  stretched  upon  the  grass  be 
neath  the  foliage  of  some  wide-spreading  tree,  on  a 
summer's  day,  he  looks  far  off  into  the  fathomless 
depths  of  the  bending  heavens.  Scenes  of  beauty, 
painted  on  a  canvass  of  Hope's  own  creation,  pass  be 
fore  his  eyes.  His  mind,  his  heart,  reaches  onward. 


100  DAY     DREAMS. 

Earth's  music  floats  about  him;  and  well  it  will  be  for 
him,  if  the  sweet  strains  of  hope  and  the  gladsome 
notes  of  faith  in  the  world,  shall  not  be  mellowed 
down  by  the  touch  of  Time,  and  Memory  yet  stand 
out  as  the  master- chord  in  the  Harp  of  Life! 

The  maiden  too  has  dreams.  Seated  upon  a  rustic 
seat,  beside  some  beautiful  stream,  watching  the 
dancing  waves  and  drinking  in  their  song,  she  sends 
forth  her  slight  craft,  full  freighted  with  hope  and 
faith,  on  the  rippling  waves  of  life's  springtide,  it  may 
be  to  return  a  wreck,  or  laden  with  disappointments; 
for,  while  it  is  the  dreamer  who  succeeds,  we  are  far 
from  saying  that  all  dreams  are  fulfilled  ;  though  full 
well  we  know  that  many  a  noble  purpose,  duly 
crowned,  has  been  born  of  them. 

These  dreams  are  not  to  be  despised.  They  are 
God-given  and  are  meant  for  our  good.  They  are  bal 
last  in  the  ship  of  Life,  steadying  it  as  it  plows  the 
turbulent  waves  of  Time,  and  weighs  anchor  for  the 
land  of  the  Hereafter.  But  thousands  of  them, 
though  beautiful  they  may  be,  are  too  etherial  to  be 
grasped  by  word  or  pen.  The  Poet-Priest  of  the 
South  has  beautifully  said  : 

"I  have  seen  Thoughts  in  the  Valley — 
Ah  ine!  how  my  spirit  was  stirred! 


THE    OTHER    SIDE.  101 

And  they  wear  holy  veils  on  their  faces, — 
Their  footsteps  can  scarcely  be  heard ; 

They  pass  through  the  Valley,  like  Virgins, 
Too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a  word." 

These  are  bright  meteors  shooting  across  the  sky 
of  Thought,  only  to  go  out  in  darkness.  But  they 
are  evidences  of  the  Unseen;  for,  amid  our  dreams, 
there  are  longings  and  aspirations  which  we  are  con 
scious  cannot  be  satisfied  on  earth.  Aye,  they  give 
us  glimpses  of  the  attainable  when  mortality  shall  be 
merged  into  immortality.  Rising  above  the  material 
they  grasp  the  immaterial,  forming  the  link  between 
the  finite  and  the  Infinite. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE. 

I  tread,  I  tread  life's  way  alone; 
So  many  I  have  loved  are  gone, 
The  densest  throng  seems  solitude, 
And  o'er  me  steals  a  pensive  mood; 
And  sometimes  as  the  daylight  dies 
Along  the  west  in  gentle  sighs, 
I  hear  still  voices  in  the  air, 
And  start — to  find  there's  no  one  there. 


102  THE    OTHER    SIDE. 

Perhaps  they  float  across  the  tide, 
Across  the  tide  so  deep  and  wide, 
From  loved  ones  on  the  Other  Side. 

In  gentle  tones  they  come  and  go. 
They  come  and  go  in  rythmic  flow; 
As  if  the  waves  on  shell-strewn  beach 
Had  broken,  broken  into  speech; 
And  tender  as  the  breath  of  song, 
The  breath  of  song  that  glides  along 
Neath  starlight,  o'er  the  silvery  tides, 
As  sorae  light-winged  gondola  glides 
'Twixt  mimic  shores  on  mimic  seas, 
Fanned  by  the  soft  caressing  breeze; 
And  then  before  my  vision  glide 
Forms  that  I  know  beyond  the  tide 
Are  resting  on  the  Other  Side. 

On  this  side  there  remaineth  four, 
But  they  are  scattered  far  and  wide; 

Only  one  steps  my  threshold  o'er 
At  eventide,  at  eventide, 
As  toward  the  west  the  shadows  glide; 

But  He  who  sought  his  wandering  sheep 

O'er  desert  wastes,  thro'  waters  deep, 


SOMETIME.  103 

Will  keep  my  several  ones  in  trust, 
Untouched  by  sin,  unstained  by  rust, 

Until,  (the  waves  of  death  defied) — 

• 

Beyond  the  tide,  beyond  the  tide, 
We'll  gather  on  the  Other  Side. 


SOMETIME. 

What  a  goal  in  the  future!  How  many  dreams 
are  to  be  realized,  how  many  hopes  to  burst  into  full 
fruition,  how  many  disappointments  to  meet  with 
compensation,  when  we  shall  reach  the  enchanted 
realm  of — Sometime!  The  way  may  be  long  and 
wearisome,  our  feet  tired,  our  spirits  flagging,  but  we 
are  cheered  by  the  anticipation  of  reaching  this  land 
which  rises  before  our  mental  vision  like  the  first 
clear  view  of  one  of  "the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 

The  little  child,  just  starting  out  on  life's  path 
way,  asks  you  for  something,  and  you  tell  him  he 
shall  have  it,  "  Sometime."  He  wishes  to  know  some 
thing  more  definite  about  the  point  around  which  his 
hopes  are  hereafter  to  center;  and  you  mention  the 
mile-posts,  it  may  be  of  days,  months  or  years,  that 
he  must  pass  before  he  shall  reach  that  Sometime, 


104  SOMETIME. 

that  to  him  has  become  a  desirable  point;  and  he 
grows  very  impatient  as  the  time  slowly  passes. 

We  all  have  glorious  visions  of  things  we  shall 
have  in  the  bright  Sometime  toward  which  we  are 
traveling,  and  yet  this  wonderland  of  promise,  whose 
fame  is  so  widespread,  like  To-morrow,  is  undis 
covered  and  unexplored,  as  far  as  we  know.  Many 
tell  us  they  are  seeking  it,  but  none  have  returned  to 
tell  us  about  it ;  and  we  do  know  that  vessels  are 
often  wrecked  against  the  jagged  rocks  along  its 
coasts. 

I  once  saw  a  small  pleasure  boat  gliding  down 
a  stream  on  a  lovely  summer's  morning.  The  breath 
of  flowers  stole  over  the  senses  with  soothing  effect, 
while  the  glad  strains  of  the  woodland  songsters 
floated  across  the  waters  from  the  overshadowing 
trees  along  the  banks.  The  current  was  smooth,  and 
the  white  sails  flapped  lazily  in  the  soft  breeze.  There 
was  something  SQ  intoxicating  in  the  scene,  the  hour, 
and  the  undulating  motions  of  the  boat,  that  both 
officers  and  crew  left  their  places  and  joined  the 
passengers  in. their  quiet  and  innocent  games.  But, 
as  I  had  once  sailed  down  that  stream,  I  knew 
that,  notwithstanding  the  present  tranquillity,  some 
where  beneath  the  unruffled  surface,  Destruction 


SOMETIME.  105 

lurked  in  waiting  for  all  thoughtless  ones  who  passed 
that  way.  However,  there  was  a  safe  but  narrow 
pass  by  which  all  danger  could  be  avoided,  and  I 
gave  those  on  board  an  anxious  warning,  at  the  same 
time  pointing  out  the  "  pass."  But  the  game  was 
fascinating,  and  the  players  kept  on,  merely  saying 
they  saw  no  cause  for  alarm,  but  they  would  see 
about  it — sometime.  My  heart  grew  heavy  as  I 
stood  on  the  bank  watching  the  boat  now  rapidly 
drifting  beyond  the  reach  of  my  warning  voice. 
Presently,  even  startling  me  with  its  suddenness,  for  I 
could  not  exactly  locate  the  danger  once  so  narrowly 
escaped;  there  was  a  wild  cry  of  distress,  and  a  mad 
rushing  and  gurgling  of  waters,  as  the  heedless  boat 
was  passing  from  sight;  but  above  the  sound  of  the 
dashing  and  foamy  waves,  there  came  on  the  wings  of 
the  wind  the  despairing  cry,  "  We  saw  not  our  danger 
till  it  was  too  late — too  late!" 

We  have  all  read  of  one  distinguished  for  elo 
quence,  learning  and  the  force  of  his  arguments,  who 
once  stood  before  a  king  and  reasoned  of  "  righteous 
ness,  temperance  and  a  judgment  to  come;"  and  that 
as  he  reasoned  the  king  trembled  in  his  seat,  so  con 
vinced  was  he  of  the  importance  of  the  subject;  still, 
he  sent  the  speaker  away,  saying  he  would  call  for 


106  SOMETIME. 

him  "at  a  more  convenient  season!"  That  "con 
venient  season"  is  but  another  name  for  the  "Some 
time  "  which  is  never  reached,  but  always  recedes  as 
we  approach  its  supposed  boundaries.  0!  if  we  would 
but  realize  that  the  past  and  future  are  alike  beyond 
our  reach,  and  that  NOW  is  all  we  have,  instead  of 
staking  our  all  upon  hopes  and  dreams  that  can  never 
be  realized,  because  placed  upon  that  alluring  phan 
tom — Sometime ! 

A  great  poet  has  said  that  "  There  is  a  tide  in 
the  affairs  of  men,  which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on 
to  fortune."  In  like  manner,  there  is  a  supreme  mo 
ment  in  every  life,  which,  improved,  leads  on  to 
happiness.  True,  it  may  not  be  attained  in  this  life; 
on  the  contrary,  "  it  is  written"  that  "  In  the  world 
ye  shall  have  tribulation;"  but  it  will  be  in  that  coun 
try,  of  which  it  is  said,  "Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear 
heard,  neither  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart  of  man 
to  conceive  of  the  joys"  in  store  for  those  who  may 
be  accounted  worthy  to  enter  it. 


"There  comes  an  hour  when  all  life's  joys  and  pains 

To  our  raised  vision  seem 
But  as  the  flickering  phantom  that  remains 
Of  some  dead  midnight  dream ! 


THE    PASSING    YEARS.  107 


"There  comes  an  hour  when  earth  recedes  so  far, 

Its  wasted,  wavering  ray, 
Wanes  to  the  ghostly  pallor  of  a  star 
Merged  in  the  Milky-Way. 

"Set  on  the  sharp,  sheer  summit  that  divides 

Immortal  Truth  from  mortal  f antasie ; 
We  hear  the  moaning  of  Time's  muffled  tides 
In  measureless  distance  die ! 

' '  Past  passions,  loves,  ambitions  and  despairs, 

Across  the  expiring  swell, 

Send  thro'  void  space,  like  waves  of  Lethean  airs, 
Vague  voices  of  farewell. 

"Ah,  then!  from  life's  long  haunted  dream  we  part, — 

Roused  as  a  child  new-born, 
We  feel  the  pulses  of  the  eternal  heart 
Throb  thro'  the  eternal  morn." 


THE  PASSING  YEARS. 

How  rapidly  the  years  are  going  past  !  It  seems 
but  a  little  while  since  we  paid  the  last  tribute  of  re 
spect  to  Eighty-nine,  and  lo  !  the  solemn  midnight 
knell  marks  another  era  in  our  life,  and  reminds  us 
that  another  year  has  gone  to  join  the  centuries  of 
the  past — the  "  years  beyond  the  flood."  And  O  how 
silently  it  has  passed!  We  see  its  traces  all  around 


108  THE    PASSING    YEARS. 

us,  but  we  neither  heard  its  footfall  nor  the  rustle  of 
its  wings,  as  it  hurried  onward. 

Many  a  ship  that,  full- freighted,  was  launched 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  year  Ninety  has  been 
wrecked,  and  gone  down  to  rise  no  more.  It  has 
witnessed  the  overthrow  of  many  ambitious  desires, 
the  death-throes  of  many  joyous  anticipations;  has 
seen  many  lights  extinguished,  many  stars  set  in 
darkness,  and  has  looked  on  many  new-made  graves. 
But  while  it  has  left  a  scar  on  many  a  heart,  a  blight 
on  many  a  life,  a  shadow  on  many  a  brow,  and  a 
vacant  chair  in  many  a  home,  its  record  has  not  all 
been  sad.  It  has  looked  on  many  a  birth,  on  many  a 
wedding ;  has  witnessed  vows  of  fidelity  consum 
mated,  the  strengthening  of  weakened  ties,  the  arous 
ing  of  the  latent  energies  of  some  who  were  on  the 
brink  of  despair;  has  known  many  who  were  on  the 
road  to  ruin  reclaimed ;  and  has  seen  the  world  of 
Science,  Literature  and  Art  take  a  pronounced  step 
forward  in  the  line  of  progress.  And  while  the  years 
go  on,  completing  their  cycles  and  marking  their 
periods  on  the  great  dial  of  Time,  these  changes  will 
go  on,  -these  transitions  take  place,  these  lights  and 
shadows  will  succeed  each  other  in  the  heart  and  in 
the  life. 


TO-MORROW.  109 

With  each  recurring  year  we  turn  the  proverbial 
"  new  leaf,"  and  set  forward  with  the  determination 
that  the  record  shall  be  fair ;  and  while  we  always 
fall  short,  we  have  the  consolation  of  knowing  that 
we  have  reached  a  higher  plane  in  the  moral  world 
than  we  should  have  done  had  we  set  forward  with 
no  definite  purpose  in  view.  But  our  discomfiture 
often  arises  from  the  fact  that  Time  is  so  silent  in  his 
movements,  and  we  so  prone  to  listlessness,  that,  ere 
we  are  aware,  w*e  are  away  down  the  stream,  and 
many  opportunities  gone  forever — our  time  beyond 
recovery ;  and  the  melancholy  thought  recurs  to  us 
that  "Every  moment  lost  on  earth  is  echoed,  'lost,' 
in  Heaven;"  when,  aroused  to  a  sense  of  our  heed- 
lessness,  we  once  more  gird  on  our  armor,  and  pre 
pare  for  life's  conflicts. 


TO-MORROW. 

I  know  of  a  land,  not  far  away, 
Untrod  by  the  foot  of  sorrow; 

Amid  whose  forests  the  sunbeams  play; 

And  its  sands  are  laved  by  the  tide  of  To- Day- 
Its  magic  name  is — To-Morrow. 


110  TO-MORROW. 

And  fair  it  is  as  an  Isle  of  the  Blest, 

With  the  blue  sky  bending  over; 
And  glad  expectancy  thrills  the  breast 
As  we  turn  our  eyes  to  the  purpling  west, 
Its  outlines  to  discover. 

But  we  look  in  vain — tho'  the  rare  perfume, 

As  our  light  bark  skims  the  ocean, 
Doth  like  the  breath  of  Araby  come 
From  the  lovely  land,  each  fragrant  bloom 
By  the  zephyrs  set  in  motion. 

Anon,  drawing  near  the  silvery  strand, 

We  lean  the  low  deck  over, 
And  stretch  a  gladsome,  welcoming  hand, 
Out  tow'rd  the  wonderful  sunlit  land, 

Round  which  our  bright  hopes  hover. 

And  fain  would  we  moor  to  some  fair  tree, 

With  its  graceful  boughs  o'erbending; 
Where  the  woodland  songsters,  blithe  and  free, 
Their  wildest,  cheeriest  minstrelsy, 
With  that  of  the  waves  is  blending. 

But  alas!  that  we  cannot  gain  the  isle, 
And  o'er  its  bright  paths  wander! 


TO-MORROW. 


Ill 


Tho'  its  charming  scenes  the  senses  beguile, 
As  we  near  approach  it  recedes  the  while — 
A  problem  all  may  ponder. 

0,  is  it  a  phantom,  an  idle  dream, 

From  fable-lore  we  borrow, 

That  the  waves  of  To-Day  which  around  us  gleam 
As  they  bear  us  on  'neath  the  sunset  beam, 

Reach  no  country  called  To-Morrow? 

Ah,  no!  'Tis  an  isle  in  a  boundless  sea, 

Whose  pleasures  are  supernal! 
'Tis  the  name  of  the  glorious  land,  where  we 
Shall  enter  the  gates  of  the  bright  To  Be, 

In  the  dawn  of  day  eternal. 

And  now  from  these  words  of  rhythm  and  rhyme, 

What  lesson  may  we  borrow? 
Let's  clasp  to  our  breast  this  truth  sublime — 
By  To-Day  we  measure  the  years  of  Time — 

Eternity,  by  To-Morrow. 


112  SYMPATHY. 


SYMPATHY.* 

1  know  thee  not,  0  stranger!  but  thy  words, 

So  full  of  sympathy  and  tender  grace, 

Come  to  my  spirit  like  a  healing  balm, 

And  send  a  gladsome  thrill  along  the  veins. 

Ev'n  as  the  dewdrop  to  the  dainty  flower 

That  droops  its  petals  'neath  the  noontide  sun, 

The  summer  rain  upon  the  thirsting  earth, 

Or  kiss  of  zephyr  on  the  aching  brow, 

So  comes  a  kindly  word  from  kindly  lips. 

And  when,  sometimes  beneath  the  storm-racked  sky, 

Our  life-boat  glideth  heavily  amid 

The  foam-swept  breakers  and  o'er  bars  of  sand, 

'Till  we  are  fain  to  drop  the  useless  oars, 

'Tis  sweet  to  know  that,  high  above  the  wreck, 

Earth  holds  one  heart  attuned  to  sympathy. 

And  as  the  rays  of  yonder  crescent  moon, 
And  the  clear  lustre  of  a  myriad  stars 
Combine  to  chase  away  the  clouds  that  hang 
So  darkingly  above  my  hidden  way — 


*Reply  to  an  anonymous  letter  expressing  sympathy  and  encourage 
ment  in  my  literary  work. 


SYMPATHY.  113 

As  creeps  miasma  o'er  a  stagnant  pool — 
Thy  dream- voice  comes  to  my  attentive  ear; 
And  thro'  the  silent  chambers  of  my  heart 
Sends  music,  sweet  as  fell  from  Orpheus'  lyre, 
When  his  soft  fingers  swept  its  vibrant  strings 
Amid  the  echoing  hills  of  ancient  Greece. 
But  sweet  and  wondrous  as  the  strains  must  be 
That  thus  could  stay  the  river  in  its  course 
Toward  the  bosom  of  the  beckoning  deep ; 
Or  tame  the  nature  of  the  wildest  beast 
That  roamed  the  pathless  forest;  or  could  cause 
The  loftiest  tree  to  bow  in  silent  awe, 
Far  sweeter  are  those  wakened  in  the  breast 
Of  earth's  despondent  ones,  by  sympathy. 

And  now,  upon  the  earth  which  God  hath  made 
So  beautifully  bright,  there  lives  not  one 
So  lowly  that  he  may  not  send  a  gleam 
Of  light  and  joy  across  some  shadowed  path, 
A  note  of  music  to  some  sorrowing  heart; 
Then  simple  tho'  thy  boon,  my  unknown  friend, 
Know  thou  that  past  the  graceful  tapestry 
That  veils  my  spirit  from  a  careless  world, 
Thou'st  touched  a  chord  that  softly  echoes  back 
The  tender  tribute  of  a  grateful  heart. 


114  THE   JEWS. 


THE  JEWS. 

No  people  on  earth  can  claim  a  purer  origin  than 
the  Jews.  They  are  direct  descendants  of  the  u  child 
of  promise,"  the  great  antitype  of  the  promised  Mes 
siah,  and  have  from  the  days  of  Abraham  been  "  a 
peculiar  people,"  mingling  little  with  the  people  of 
other  nationalities  either  by  marriage  or  association. 
Hence  the  conclusion  that,  notwithstanding  the  deep- 
seated  prejudice  existing  in  the  world  against  them, 
no  purer  blood  flows  through  human  veins  than  flows 
through  theirs.  It  was  of  this  line  came  all  the 
grand  old  Bible  characters  whom  we  most  revere  and 
love — patriarchs,  and  prophets,  and  kings,  and 
priests,  and  John  the  Baptist,  and  Jesus  of  Nazareth 
and  his  disciples.  And  yet  the  mind  of  the  Gentile 
race  has  always  been  prejudiced  against  them.  Early 
prejudice  we  know  has  much  to  do  with  our  later 
estimate  nf  things,  and  often  prevents  our  giving  due 
weight  to  facts.  We  take  a  position  between  facts  and 
preconceived  opinions,  and  are  unwilling,  or  have  not 
the  moral  courage,  even  in  the  face  of  testimony,  to 
abandon  our  strongholds.  It  would  require  deep  re- 


THE    JEWS.  115 

search  to  enable  us  to  give  all  the  grounds  of  this 
prejudice  whose  existence  we  accept  as  a  fact.  In  the 
divine  economy  it  is  doubtless  a  part  of  the  discipline 
which  God  will  overrule  for  our  good  and — theirs. 
It  will  be  remembered  that  when  David  fled  before 
the  face  of  Absalom,  Shimei,  of  the  house  of  Saul, 
came  out  and  cursed  him  and  threw  stones  at  him  ; 
and  that  when  Abishai,  the  nephew  of  David  and 
brother  of  Joab,  in  his  righteous  indignation,  would 
have  slain  Shimd,  the  king  said,  "  Let  him  curse,  be 
cause  the  Lord  hath  said  unto  him  '  Curse  David.' " 
Of  this  prejudice  the  most  we  can  say  is  that  God 
permits  it. 

About  two  thousand  years  before  the  dawn  of 
the  Christian  era,  Abraham  emigrated  from  Mesopo 
tamia,  the  Padan  Aram  of  Genesis,  to  the  west  side 
of  the  Euphrates,  and  settled  in  Palestine,  from 
which  circumstance  his  descendants  were  known  as 
Hebrews  ;  the  word  signifying  "from  beyond  the 
Euphrates."  It  was  not  until  after  their  return  from 
their  captivity  in  Babylon  that  they  were  known 
among  other  nations  as  Jews,  this  appellation  being 
derived  from  the  word  Judea,  the  Roman  name  of  the 
most  southern  of  the  three  divisions  of  Palestine. 

But  Abraham  did  not  at  this  time  possess  the 


116  THE   JEWS. 

land — it  was  still  but  the  "promised  land;"  for  we  are 
told  that  *'  By  faith  Abraham,  when  he  was  called  to 
go  out  into  a  place  which  he  should  AFTER  receive  as 
an  inheritance,  obeyed;  and  he  went  out,  not  know 
ing  whither  he  went.  By  faith  he  sojourned  in  the 
land  of  promise  as  in  a  strange  country,  dwelling  in 
tents  with  Isaac  and  Jacob,  heirs  with  him  of  the 
same  promise."  From  this  Scripture  we  learn  what 
has  been  stated, — that  Abraham's  inheritence  was 
still  prospective.  It  was  not  until  after  their  deliver 
ance  from  their  four  hundred  years  of  Egyptian 
bondage  that  his  descendants,  having  subdued  the 
Canaanites,  took  formal  possession  of  the  promised  in 
heritance.  Later,  on  account  of  continued  disobedi 
ence,  they  temporarily  forfeited  their  rights,  and  were 
carried  to  Babylon.  For  seventy  years  they  remained 
captive  in  this  strange  land.  But  they  did  not  forget 
Jerusalem.  Among  the  hills  and  plains  of  Palestine 
were  home  and  freedom;  and  "  they  hung  their  harps 
on  the  willows,"  and  refused  "to  sing  the  Lord's 
songs  in  a  strange  land."  And  the  God  of  Abraham 
heard  the  cry  of  the  contrite  heart,  and  a  second  time 
delivered  them  from  bondage.  But  alas  !  they  are 
now  for  the  third  time  in  bondage  ;  not  to  Egypt  or 
Babylon,  not  for  four  hundred  or  for  seventy  years  ; 


THE    JEWS.  117 

but  for  eighteen  centuries  they  have  been  scattered 
abroad,  having  no  heritage  among  the  nations  of  the 
earth.  By  rejecting  Him  whom  God  had  sent,  they 
forfeited  their  birthright,  and  are  in  exile,  where  they 
will  remain  till  the  Gentile  nations  shall  have  re 
ceived  the  gospel,  when  the  "blindness  in  part"  that 
has  "  happened  to  Israel  till  the  fullness  of  the  Gen 
tiles  shall  be  come  in,"  shall  be  removed,  and  they 
too  will  accept  Christ,  and  his  saying  shall  again  be 
verified,  that  "  the  last  shall  be  first  and  the  first 
last;"  and  for  the  third  time — the  mystic  number  of  the 
Scriptures — they  shall  be  restored  to  their  inheritance. 
In  their  exile  they  have  not  been  permitted  for 
the  most  part  to  enjoy  the  rights  and  privileges  usually 
accorded  to  strangers  or  aliens.  Even  Christianity, 
whose  very  spirit  is  that  of  religious  toleration,  has 
been  intolerant  of  this  people.  Imperial  edicts  and 
ecclesiastical  decrees  have  been  rigorous  as  regarded 
them.  But,  notwithstanding  they  have  been  perse 
cuted,  oppressed,  enslaved,  degraded,  and  expelled 
from  different  countries,  they  stand  before  us  to-day 
as  living  witnesses  of  the  fact  that  no  power  on  earth 
is  able  to  destroy  the  people  whom  God  chose  in 
Abraham.  With  the  increasing  light  of  Christianity 
their  condition  has  been  greatly  ameliorated.  From 


118  THE    JEWS. 

the  days  of  Cromwell  their  privileges  as  citizens 
of  England  were  gradually  extended  until  in  1858 
the  climax  of  toleration  was  reached  by  their  being 
made  eligible  to  admission  into  the  English  Parlia 
ment.  In  our  own  country  they  have  perfect  liberty. 
As  to  learning,  no  people  has  advantage  of  the 
Jews.  They  stand  in  the  front  ranks  of  intellectual 
advancement,  both  in  science  and  general  literature. 
The  larger  proportion  of  the  professors  of  German 
universities  and  academies  is  Jews.  A  trustworthy 
authority  has  said  that  the  Jews  are  "by  the  unani 
mous  verdict  of  the  historians  and  philosophers  of 
the  present  time  reckoned  among  the  chief  promoters 
of  humanity  and  civilization."  Much  might  be  said 
of  their  advancement  in  the  fine  arts,  music,  painting 
and  the  drama;  as  many  Jewish  names  are  familiar 
to  our  ears  in  connection  with  these,  but  we  must  de 
sist.  We  are  only  astonished  at  what  has  been  at 
tained  in  these  things  by  a  people  in  exile — a  people 
in  whom  the  prophetic  words  of  Jesus  when  he  wept 
over  Jerusalem,  have  been  so  terribly  fulfilled.  A 
quotation  from  an  eminent  writer  of  their  own  race 
will  give  a  vivid  word-picture  of  what  they  have  en 
dured :  "If  there  is  a  gradation  in  sufferings,  Israel 
has  reached  the  highest  acme ;  if  the  long  duration  of 


THE    JEWS.  119 

sufferings,  and  the  patience  with  which  they  are 
borne,  ennobles,  the  Jews  defy  the  high-born  of  all 
countries  ;  if  a  literature  is  called  rich  which  contains 
a  few  classical  dramas,  what  place  deserves  a  tragedy 
lasting  a  millennium  and  a  half,  composed  and  en 
acted  by  the  heroes  themselves  !" 

But  as  of  old,  in  the  days  of  their  Babylonian 
captivity,  the  faces  of  the  Jews  are  toward  Jerusalem, 
where,  it  is  said,  their  numbers  are  increasing.  Be 
cause  they  "  knew  not  the  day  of  their  visitation," 
they  have  been  temporarily  deposed;  but  we  believe 
the  hour  of  deliverance  is  drawing  near  when  they 
will  not  only  come  again  into  the  possession  of  their 
earthly  inheritance,  but  will  be  restored  to  their  posi 
tion  as  God's  "peculiar  people"  in  the  original  sense 
as  typical  of  the  children  of  faith ;  and  that  in  that 
day  the  voices  of  Jew  and  Gentile  will  unite  in 
the  gladsome  strain,  u  The  Lord  God  Omnipotent 
reigneth  !"  Their  own  faith  in  their  final  restoration 
has  never  wavered,  and  this  faith  has  seemed  to  be 
emphasized  with  a  substantial  foundation  since  Roths 
childs  has  held  a  mortgage  on  Palestine — the  land 
that  has  witnessed  the  most  wonderful  manifestations 
of  God's  presence — the  land  consecrated  by  the  foot 
prints  of  the  world's  Redeemer. 


120  GOOD   NIGHT. 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

Alone,  alone  in  the  old  house,  dear; 

My  loved  ones  scattered — some  far,  some  near; 

Some  resting  where,  'neath  the  open  sky, 

The  leaves  breathe  a  dirge  as  the  winds  pass  by; 

And  when  the  beautiful  day  goes  down, 

And  night  comes  on,  with  its  star-set  crown, 

Of  all  who  gave  to  my  world  its  light, 

There's  no  one  left  me  to  say,  "  Good  night." 

Alone,  alone  in  the  old  house,  dear; 

The  morning  of  life  with  its  hope  and  cheer, 

And  its  noontide  glory,  so  long  passed  o'er, 

That  shadows  are  gathering  around  my  door ; 

And  the  silence,  deep'ning  the  air  of  gloom 

That  hovers  about  each  vacant  room, 

Remains  unbroken  by  footstep  light, 

By  child-caress  or  the  fond  "  Good  night." 

Alone,  alone  in  the  old  house,  dear, 
Only  God  and  the  angels  near, 
When  I  lift  to  Heaven  my  prayer  or  hymn 
At  morning,  or  when  the  day  grows  dim  ; 


OMISSION.  121 

And  if  the  Messenger — sent  to  all — 

At  the  dear  old  house  some  day  should  call, 

And  bear  me  up  to  the  Hills  of  Light, 

There's  no  one  to  kiss  me  and  say,  "  Good  night." 

Alone,  alone  in  the  old  house,  dear; 

But,  above  its  silence  and  gloom,  I  hear 

A  low  voice  saying,  within  my  breast, 

"  Thou'rt  nearing  the  borderland  of  rest ;" 

And  then  I  remember  with  grateful  prayer, 

Tis  written,  "There  shall  be  no  night  there;" 

So,  passing  from  darkness  into  light, 

With  joy  I  shall  bid  the  world  "  Good  night." 


OMISSION. 

Neglected  duties  are  the  ghosts 
That  haunt  us  thro'  the  years; 

The  specters  that  e'er  fill  the  breast 
With  unavailing  fears. 

'Tis  not  the  yielding  to  a  wrong 

That,  at  the  set  of  sun, 
Brings  to  the  conscience  such  remorse 

As  duties  left  undone. 


122  THE  POET'S  HERITAGE. 

The  kindly  word  we  might  have  said, 
The  smile  we  might  have  given, 

But  did  not,  prove,  alas,  at  night, 
A  veil  'twixt  us  and  Heaven. 


THE  POET'S  HERITAGE. 

"Sing,  Poet,  sing  !"     The  universe  is  thine  ! 
The  lofty  mountain  and  the  shady  dell, 
The  roaring  cataract,  the  purling  brook, 
The  moon,  with  her  bright  retinue  of  stars, 
And  night  and  morn,  and  noon,  and  tearful  eve, 
And  death,  and  hell,  and  even  Heaven  itself, 
Are  truly  thine  if  thou  art  poet  true — 
The  called  and  set  apart  by  seal  divine 
To  wake  the  silent  strings  of  sacred  lyre  ; 
'And  that  is  sacred  lyre  which  doth  give 
The  ever- varied  yet  harmonious  notes 
Of  truth  and  beauty. 

Brightest  visions  pass 
In  stately  train  before  the  poet's  eyes, 
Unseen  by  others  howsoever  versed 
In  ancient  lores  or  new  philosophies. 
These  may  pertain  to  earth's  or  heaven's  laws; 


THE    FOETUS    HERITAGE.  123 

Those  to  the  dreams  and  vagaries  of  men, 

Who  walked  with  Plato  'neath  the  plane-trees'  shade 

In  academic  gardens.     But,  alike, 

The  fairest  dream  and  grandest  theory, 

Must  perish  with  the  things  consigned  to  dust, 

Not  founded  on  the  solid  rock  of  Truth. 

The  Poet  is  the  prophet  of  his  time. 

In  the  still  watches  of  the  midnight  hour, 

When  Death's  twin-brother  holds  all  life  at  bay, 

And  benedictions  rest  upon  the  world, 

His  ever-wakeful  and  far-grasping  mind, 

From  the  deep-graven  record  of  the  past, 

Gleans  subtler  meaning  than  is  wont  to  lie 

Upon  the  surface  of  events  exposed; 

And  from  its  hidden  meaning  gains  a  clue, 

Which,  winding  thro'  a  gloomy  maze  of  doubt, 

Opens  at  last  upon  an  eminence, 

With  air  so  pure  the  mists  lift  from  the  eyes, 

And,  far  away,  in  undulating  waves, 

Stretches  the  landscape  of  Futurity. 

Lightly  he  treads  this  great  highway  of  Thought, 
And,  from  his  dizzy  height  beholding,  far 
Along  the  plain  of  unborn  years,  the  scenes 
To  be  enacted  on  the  boards  of  time, 


124  THE  POET'S  HERITAGE. 

Freighted  with  prophecy,  he  launches  forth 
His  weirdly-graceful  argosy  of  song. 

And  be  he  infidel  or  man  of  faith, 

The  rounded  numbers  of  his  verse  will  take 

Undying  forms  of  loveliness  and  truth. 

When  wicked  Balaam  to  his  aid  had  called 

The  son  of  Beor  to  pronounce  a  curse 

On  Israel,  the  chosen  of  the  Lord, 

A.  blessing,  not  a  curse,  escaped  his  lips. 

Thus  :  "  God  is  not  a  man  that  he  should  lie, 

Nor  son  of  man  that  he  should  e'er  repent. 

How  then  curse  him  whom  God  hath  never  cursed, 

Or  how  defy  whom  He  hath  not  defied  ?" 

''How  goodly  are  thy  tents,  0  Israel ! 

How  fair  thy  gardens  by  the  river's  side, 

Where  the  lign-aloes  which  the  Lord  hath  set, 

And  lordly  cedars  cast  a  grateful  shade." 

And  there  was  one  even  in  our  modem  time 

Of  wayward  mood  and  unbelieving  heart, 

Whose  song  was  eloquent  with  prophecy; 

The  wandering  cloud  became  a  stepping-stone 

From  which  he  looked  upon  the  universe, 

The  while  he  clothed  in  songful  phrase  some  thought 

Caught  from  the  bosom  of  infinity. 


THREESCORE    AND    TEN.  125 

There  is  a  sweetness  and  a  joy  in  song, 

Which  only  poets  feel.     Unknown  to  fame 

Is  many  a  bard  whose  songs  shall  swell 

Amid  the  arches  of  eternity 

That  on  the  earth  fell  on  unheeding  ears; 

For  what  is  true  is  truly  never  lost. 

When  Time  himself,  grown  old,  shall  fold  his  hands 

And  sink  into  the  tomb  of  Nothingness; 

And  stars,  waxed  pale  beneath  the  brighter  beams 

Of  the  Eternal  Morn,  shall  pass  away, 

Dissolved  like  vapors  of  the  summer  night ; 

And  the  fair  moon  shall  dim,  whose  tender  light 

Is  but  a  reflex  of  the  Day-god's  face, 

Then  shall  the  Poet  in  his  native  realm 

Take  up  the  soulful  strain  broken  by  death 

And  send  it  trilling  down  the  deathless  years. 


THREESCORE  AND  TEN. 

What  radiant  dreams  visit  the  heart,  when,  in  the 
freshness  of  life's  fair  morning,  we  look  out  on  the 
beautiful  vistas  that  stretch  along  the  journey  ordi 
narily  allotted  to  man — our  threescore  and  ten  years. 
True,  this  is  an  infinity  which  our  minds  cannot 


126  THREESCORE    AND   TEN. 

grasp.  The  few  years  that  we  have  passed,  though 
bright,  so  bright,  have  seemed  long ;  for  the  siren, 
Hope,  pictures  the  future  as  brighter  still,  and  so  our 
aspirations  lead  us  on  ;  and,  all  unheeding  the  beauty 
and  fragrance  along  our  pathway,  we  look  forward  to, 
it  may  be,  an  unattainable  good.  We  do  not  think  of 
death.  The  infant,  the  merry  child,  the  gladsome 
maiden,  the  buoyant  youth,  may  go  from  our  side 
down  to  the  quiet  grave  to  sleep  "under  the  daisies," 
but  the  life-current  dances  too  joyously  along  our 
veins  to  think  of  death — for  us  surely  the  end  is  not 
yet ;  and  so,  neglecting  these  words  of  the  wise  man, 
"  Remember  now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy 
youth,  while  the  evil  days  come  not,  nor  the  years 
draw  nigh  when  thou  shalt  say  I  have  no  pleasure 
in  them,"  we  go  recklessly  on,  at  last,  perhaps,  to 
wreck  our  life  hopes  on  the  turbulent  bosom  of  that 
awful  gulf,  Too  Late. 

But  a  brighter  picture  comes  before  us — a  beauti 
ful,  mild,  serene  old  age.  Such  an  example  we  have 
in  our  midst.  On  Thursday,  November  24,  Rev.  J. 
N.  Lewis,  the  venerable  pastor  of  the  Presbyterian 
churches  of  Milton  and  Bagdad,  closed  the  record  of 
his  threescore  and  twelve  years.  His  snowy  hair  tells 
us  that  the  winters  have  not  gone  by  unmarked,  but 


THREESCORE    AND    TEN.  127 

the  genial  smile  that  so  often  plays  about  his  face 
breathes  of  the  summer  within.  And  0,  what  changes 
he  has  seen  by  the  way  on  his  long  journey  !  What 
dreams  have  been  dispelled,  what  few  hopes  realized  ! 
lie  has  seen  the  fields  whitening  for  harvest,  while 
youthful  ministers  have  been  called,  perhaps,  from 
his  side,  to  lay  down  the  sickle.  He  has  seen  the 
Church  move  forward,  and  the  missionary  spirit 
deepening  and  widening  in  its  influence  until  it  em 
braces  the-  very  Isles  of  the  Sea ;  for  though  Ignor 
ance  asserts  that  the  Religious  World  has  a  retro 
grade  motion,  persons  who  keep  up  with  the  history 
of  Christian  progress  know  differently.  Religion 
may  seem  to  stand  still  sometimes  ;  but  it  is  only 
seeming — it  is  simply  gathering  strength  for  a  fiercer 
conflict — a  conflict  that  may  shake  empires  and  king 
doms.  Listen  to  Disraeli  on  this  point  : 

"  Wiseacres  go  on  talking  about  the  decline  of 
religion,  and  meanwhile  religion  goes  on  building  up 
and  tearing  down  empires.  Religion  dying  in  the 
world  !  And  yet  if  you  touch  religion,  or  tread  on 
religious  convictions,  a  revolution  will  be  kindled  in 
twenty-four  hours  in  any  Nation  in  Christendom  as 
fierce  as  that  which  deluged  France  with  blood  ninety 
years  ago." 


128  THREESCORE    AND    TEN. 

The  sin  of  a  people  may  prove  their  salvation — 
the  turning  point  in  their  history  ;  their  burdened 
conscience  may  become  too  heavy  to  bear,  and  their 
very  wrath  may  be  turned  to  the  praise  of  God. 
Doubtless  our  reverend  friend  has  noticed  these  things 
with  deep  interest.  But  he  has  borne  the  heat  and 
burden  of  the  day  ;  and  the  time  of  his  departure  is 
drawing  near,  when,  we  doubt  not,  in  the  language  of 
the  great  Apostle,  he  can  say,  "  I  have  fought  a  good 
fight;  I  have  finished  my  course,  I  have  kept  the 
faith ;  henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for  me  a  crown  of 
righteousness,  which  the  Lord,  the  righteous  judge, 
will  give  me  in  that  day."  At  farthest,  it  cannot  be 
long  ere  the  ministerial  mantle  shall  fall  from  his 
shoulders,  but,  alas  !  where  among  us  can  be  found 
an  Elisha — one  worthy  to  take  it  up  ? 

It  is  certainly  a  glorious  privilege  to  the  weary 
laborer  of  almost  three-fourths  of  a  century  to  see 
the  world,  with  its  sorrows,  its  doubts,  and  its 
shadows,  receding,  while  the  domes  and  spires  of  the 
New  Jerusalem  loom  up  across  the  River.  Though  it 
is  appointed  unto  man  once  to  die,  methinks  there  is 
beauty  and  inspiration  in  the  thought  of  being  almost 
Home. 


MUSIC.  129 


MUSIC. 

Born  of  the  deepest,  the  brightest,  the  best, 
And  a  feeling  by  mortal  tongue  never  exprest, 
Than  Music  there's  nothing  diviner  been  giv'n 
To  cheer  man  on  earth,  or  allure  him  to  Heav'n. 

On  light,  viewless  wings,  we  escape  thro'  its  bars, 
And  soar  far  away  'cross  the  path  of  the  stars ; 
Till  our  feet  press  the  highway  of  infinite  spheres, 
Where  no  calendar's  kept  of  the  seasons  and  years. 

O,  the  Spirit  of  Song !  with  its  wonderful  chords — 
Too  light  and  ethereal  to  wed  unto  words  ; 
It  stirs  the  soul's  depths,  like  a  fathoming  rod — 
Wakes  echoes  erst  sacred  to  Silence  and  God. 

When  the  earth,  like  a  wand'rer,  escaping  the  storm, 
Out  of  darkness  and  shadows  of  Chaos  took  form; 
The  stars  of  the  Morning,  the  unnumber'd  throng 
That  encircle  the  Throne,  told  their  gladness  in  song. 

A  dialect  here,  'tis  the  language  of  Heaven  ; 
And  much  of  the  sweetness  celestial  is  given 
To  those  who  will  cherish  the  gift  so  sublime 
That  lifts  them  away  from  the  sorrows  of  time. 


130  DIVIDED    BUT   TRUE. 


DIVIDED  BUT  TRUE. 

I  think  of  thee  loved  one  !     At  evening's  calm  hour. 

As  day  slowly  glides  thro'  the  doors  of  the  west, 
And  gentle  winds  sigh  in  the  vine-trellised  bower, 

A  sweet  thought  of  thee  steals  over  my  breast. 

And  when  neath  the  burdens  of  care  I  am  bowed, 
And  the  sparkle  and  foam  melt  away  from  life's 
wine 

And  shadows  like  twilight  my  spirit  enshroud, 
The  tendrils  of  thought  still  around  thee  entwine. 

Aye,  often  in  fancy  I  see  thy  fair  face, 

And  eyes  whose  expression  I  ne'er  can  forget, 

And  with  pencil,  inspired  by  affection,  I  trace 
Thy  features — so  dear  to  my  memory  yet. 

How  sacred  our  love !  all  undimmed  by  the  years, 
With  their  close-tangled  network  of  shadow   and 
sheen ; 

Tho'  Fate  hath  divided  us  wide  as  the  spheres, 
Hope,  charity,  faith,  keep  our  bosoms  serene. 


COME    UNTO    ME.  131 


COME  UNTO  ME. 


[Suggested  by  a  sermon  of  Rev.  R.  T.  Hanks  while  pastor  of  the 
First  Baptist  Church,  Dallas,  preached  from  the  words :  "  Come  unto 
me  all  ye  that  labor,"  etc.] 


"  Come  unto  Me !"  So  soft  and  low 
These  words  of  invitation  flow, 
To  weary  hearts  from  lips  divine, 
Who  can  the  dear  request  decline  ? 

"  Come  unto  Me  !"     How  passing  sweet 
To  lay  our  burden  at  His  feet, 
And  in  our  erstwhile  troubled  breast 
Find  the  blest  calm  of  perfect  rest. 

"  Come  unto  Me  !"     An  answering  chord 
Thrills  in  my  bosom  at  the  word, 
And  my  tired  heart,  so  prone  to  roam, 
With  trembling  faith  replies  "  I  come  !" 

"  Come  unto  Me  !"     0  sacred  Guest 
Of  earth  ! — come  at  thine  own  behest; 
From  all  earth's  idols  set  me  free, 
Nor  let  me  turn  again  from  Thee. 


132  DUTIES 


DUTIES. 

Sometimes  along  lief  s  pathway  we  reach  a  point 
where  we  think  to  lay  aside  our  burdens ;  ando  ur 
hearts  beat  with  exultation  in  the  light  of  the  pros 
pective  liberty ;  while  far  away  in  the  distance 
stretches  a  smooth  plain,  set  with  trees  and  dotted 
with  flowers ;  only  disappearing  where  the  Seen  is 
merged  into  the  Unseen.  It  may  be  that  light  clouds 
are  floating  overhead,  and  dim  shadows  falling  at  our 
feet ;  still,  all  is  peaceful,  and  there  is  a  restful  feeling 
in  the  prospect.  But  alas !  the  inexorable  law  of 
Necessity  too  soon  awakens  us  from  our  dreams,  and 
reminds  us  that  our  labors  are  not  done ;  while  rising 
superior  to  this  law  we  hear  a  gentle  voice  saying, 
"  Work  while  it  is  called  to-day  for  the  night  cometh 
when  no  man  can  work ;''  and  once  more  taking  up 
our  burdens  we  address  ourselves  to  our  task,  feeling 
that  if  Adam  in  his  sinless  estate  was  not  exempt 
from  toil,  it  is  but  meet  that  we,  his  degenerate  chil 
dren,  should  labor  in  our  respective  fields  until  the 
Master  shall  bid  us  lay  down  our  implements  of  toil 
and  rest. 


DUTIES.  133 

It  may  be  that  the  dreams  of  ambition,  which 
once  nerved  us  with  strength  and  energy  for  hard 
conflicts  in  the  battle  of  life,  have  faded,  as  all  dreams 
must  fade  as  the  hopes  that  brighten  them  disappear; 
and  that  life's  firmament  has  become  perceptibly 
dimmed.  It  matters  not.  Necessity  admits  of  no 
apology — will  hear  no  excuse.  But  there  is  this  con 
solation,  that  as  Necessity  is  the  mother  of  Inven 
tion,  she  often  improvises  weapons  adapted  to  our 
peculiar  circumstances,  with  which  we  go  forth  fully 
equipped  for  every  emergency,  and  ready  to  meet  the 
conflicts  of  a  world  on  which  we  had  turned  our  backs 
so  resignedly  ! 

It  is  with  something  of  this  feeling  that  we  enter 
upon  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  the  new  year. 
We  find  that  each  recurring  week,  month  and  year, 
brings  its  own  duties,  labors  and  responsibilities,  and, 
shrinking  from  them,  we  only  burden  our  consciences; 
for  while  the  race  is  not  always  to  the  swift  nor  the 
battle  to  the  strong,  a  clear  conscience,  a  light  heart, 
a  soft  pillow  and  refreshing  slumber,  are  the  natural 
results  of  duties  well  performed,  though  our  efforts 
seem  to  prove  a  failure.  Perhaps  the  hearts  of  some 
who  glance  over  these  pages  will  echo  our  sentiment 
and  follow  our  thought.  To  such  we  extend  a  kindly 


134  DUTIES. 

New  Year's  greeting.  The  great  heart  of  humanity 
responds  to  one  chord — that  of  sympathy.  What 
dew  is  to  the  flower,  sympathy  is  to  the  heart;  and, 
scattered  along  the  highways  and  byways  of  life  the 
good  it  does  cannot  be  estimated.  The  consciousness 
of  awakening  a  responsive  thrill  in  other  breasts 
sometimes  arouses  us  to  renewed  efforts  when  we  are 
almost  ready  to  falter  : 

"  For  a  very  struggle  at  best  is  life; 

If  we  knew  the  struggle  along  the  line 
We  should  shrink  to  accept  this  gift  divine. 

"  Sometimes,  in  the  hush  of  the  evening  hour, 
We  think  of  the  leisure  we  meant  to  gain, 
And  the  work  we  would  do  with  the  hand  and  brain. 

'I  am  tired  to-night,  I  am  lacking  power 
To  think,'  we  say;  'I  must  wa  t  until 
My  brain  is  rested  and  pulse  is  still.' 

"O  woman  and  man!     There  is  never  rest; 

Dream  not  of  leisure  that  will  not  come 

Till  age  shall  make  you  both  blind  and  dumb. 
You  must  live  each  day  at  your  very  best  ; 

The  work  of  the  world  is  done  by  few — 

God  asks  that  a  part  be  done  by  you. 

"  Say  oft  of  the  years  as  they  pass  from  sight, 
This,  this  is  life  with  ics  golden  store, 
I  sLall  have  it  once  but  it  comes  no  more. 

Have  a  purpose  and  do  it  with  your  might; 

You  will  finish  your  work  on  the  Other  side, 
And  heart  and  brain  will  be  satisfied." 


BLIND.  135 


THE  TWO  ANGELS. 

A    PERSIAN    LEGEND. 

There  are  two  angels  by  us,  day  and  night, 
Standing  on  either  side.     One  on  the  right 
Notes  every  cheerful  word  and  tender  thought 
And  kindly  labor,  by  the  fingers  wrought, 
And  writes  in  a  book  with  pen  of  gold ; 
While  on  the  left  the  sister- angel  stands 
With  face  averted,  and  with  trembling  hands 
Each  evil  deed  upon  a  scroll  records 
And  wicked  thought  that  blossoms  into  words; 
Then,  with  the  patience  born  of  pity,  waits 
With  anxious  face  before  the  Ivory  Gates, 
To  blot  it  out  as  Allah  gives  the  power, 
Repentance  coming  ere  the  midnight  hour  ; 
If  not,  to  pass  it  in  as  'twas  enrolled. 


BLIND. 

If  I  had  known  !"     Ah  me  !     If  I  had  known, 
The  day  thou  questionedst  me  what  now  I  know, 
I  might  have  won  thee  to  avert  the  blow, 
Wrhich  in  the  dust  of  anguish  laid  thee  low  ; 


136  MAY. 

Even  tho'  I  must  have  sacrificed  my  own 
Most  blissful  dream,  and  that  of  one  I  love, 
To  turn  thee  from  a  pathway  time  doth  prove, 

Was  full  of  snares  for  thy  unwitting  feet, 

Ambushed  'mid  flowers  with  dews  of  morning  sweet ; 
But  such  was  not  to  be,  dear  one,  and  so 
Along  rough  ways  thy  bruised  feet  must  go, 
With  none  but  me  to  understand  and  know; 

While  I  o'er  life's  Sahara  walk  alone 

A  path  I  had  not  trod — if  1  had  known . 


MAY. 

Queen  of  months,  with  chaplet  gay, 

After  April  comes  the  May, 

With  the  breath  of  Flora  sweet; 

Flower  by  flower  and  leaf  by  leaf 

For  a  gladsome  reign,  tho'  brief, 
April  weaves  a  crown  complete 
For  the  maid  of  dainty  feet — 

For  the  queen  that  cometh  after 

Radiant  with  song  and  laughter, 

Then  the  Nymph  of  smiles  and  tears 
Joins  the  children  of  dead  years. 

Queen  of  months,  in  bright  array, 

After  April  comes  the  May. 


NO    HOME    ON    EARTH.  137 

NO  HOME  ON  EARTH. 

Our  citizenship  is  iirlleaven. — [PAUL. 

There  is  a  inagic  in  that  little  word; 

It  is  a  mystic  circle  that  surrounds 

Comforts  and  virtues  never  known  beyond 

Its  hallowed  limits.     Oftimes  at  eve 

Amid  my  wanderings  I  have  seen  far  off 

The  lonely  height  which  spake  of  comfort  there. 

It  told  my  heart  of  many  a  joy  of  home — 

And  my  poor  heart  was  sad.     When  I  have  gazed 

From  some  high  eminence  on  goodly  vales, 

And  cots  and  villages  embowered  below, 

The  thought  would  rise  that  all  to  me  was  strange 

Amid  the  scene  so  fair;  nor  one  small  spot 

Where  my  tired  heart  might  rest  and  call  it  Home. 

— [SOTJTHKY. 

The  months  and  years  as  they  go  by  only  serve 
to  verify  the  words  of  the  great  apostle,  that  "we 
have  no  abiding  city  here."  Truly,  we  are  pilgrims 
and  sojourners.  The  places  that  we  designate  with 
the  sacred  name  of  home  are  simply  way-stations 
along  the  road  of  life,  where  we  rest  for  a  time  under 
our  "  own  vine  and  fig  tree;"  ever  conscious  that  we 
may  at  any  time  be  called  to  take  up  our  pilgrim- 
staff  and  journey  on.  Many  such  places  mark  the 
path  we  have  already  traversed,  and  many  fond 
memories  are  associated  with  them  ;  but  we  are  learn- 


138  NO    HOME   ON    EARTH. 

ing  not  to  "set  our  affections"  upon  these  things,  but 
to  bury  them  with  other  memories,  under  the  dead 
leaves  of  a  receding  past,  and  to  set  our  faces  onward. 
Just  now  there  rises  before  me  the  vision  of  a 
beautiful  "  dream-home,"  situated  far  across  the 
flower  carpeted  prairies  of  Texas,  at  the  foot  of  a 
long  range  of  mountains.  A  fountain  of  water,  clear 
as  crystal,  rippling  up  from  beneath  a  rocky  bed, 
sparkles  and  dances  in  the  bright  beams  of  the  morn 
ing  sun,  as  they  penetrate  the  graceful  foliage  of  over 
shadowing  trees.  Here,  on  a  golden  summer  day  of 
the  long  ago,  when  hope  stood  sentinel  along  our  way, 
we  paused  and  planned  a  home.  But  alas !  it  never 
arose  above  the  ideal — the  "  castle  in  the  air." 
Scarcely  had  the  first  stake  been  set  which  gave  it 
a  stamp  of  the  real,  when  we  were  called  to  gird  on 
our  sandals  and  prepare  for  journeying.  Ah  !  life  is 
indeed  a  scene  of  unfinished  designs.  Verily,  a  "  man 
*.  deviseth  his  ways,  but  the  Lord  directeth  his  steps." 
After  as  manifold  wanderings  as  characterized  the 
progress  of  the  children  of  Israel  through  the  wilder 
ness,  we  at  last  pitched  our  tent  in  Florida,  the  land 
of  sunshine  and  tropical  beauty,  and  once  more  set 
up  our  Lares  and  Penates  and  dared  give  it  the 
name  of  Home. 


NO    HOME    ON    EARTH.  139 

Here  we  expected  to  spend  the  afternoon  and 
evening  of  life  amid  pleasant  and  familiar  surround 
ings  ;  and  when  at  last  the  "  appointed  time  "  should 
come,  to  step  on  board  the  palace  car  bound  for  the 
eternal  city — "  the  city  which  hath  foundations, 
whose  builder  and  maker  is  God."  But  again  there 
came  a  summons,  signed  and  sealed  by  the  unerring 
hands  of  Providence,  to  strike  our  tents  once  more, 
and,  like  Abraham,  go  forth  not  knowing  whither  we 
went ;  and  for  the  last  time,  it  may  be,  we  have 
looked  upon  those  beloved  scenes  and  surroundings 
which  we  had  grown  accustomed  to  call  our  own  ;  for 
the  last  time  gazed  upon  the  beautiful  trees  beneath 
whose  shadows  we  hoped  to  rest  when  life's  sun 
should  decline  westward  ;  and  caught  glimpses  of  the 
lovely  bay, 

Whose  waters,  by  the  light  winds  kissed, 
Sparkled  and  glowed  like  amethyst. 

And  for  the  last  time  looked  on  the  bright  roses  and 
lilies  planted  by  loving  hands,  which,  frail  and 
tender,  are  already  folded  in  the  sweet  sleep  which 
"He  giveth  His  beloved" — lovely  plants  whose 
burden  of  blooms  was  to  lend  fragrance  and  beauty 
to  this  last  station  along  the  railway  of  the  years. 


140  NO    HOME    ON    EARTH. 

For  the  last  time  !  What  sadness,  what  pathos, 
linger  about  these  simple  words.  It  sends  a  thrill  to 
the  heart  to  part  with  even  a  casual  acquaintance,  or 
an  object  of  indifference,  haunted  by  the  thought 
that  it  is  for  the  last  time  ;  but  when  the  acquaint 
ance  is  a  dear  friend,  and  the  object  one  associated 
with  a  beloved  home,  how  infinitely  sadder  is  it  to 
feel  "  that  we  shall  see  their  face  no  more." 

0  ye  changing  scenes  of  time  when  will  ye  give 
place  to  the  unchangeable  ?  So  many  are  the  vicissi 
tudes  of  this  life  that  we  are  ready  at  times  to  say  as 
did  the  patriarch  of  old :  "  Few  and  evil  have  the 
days  of  the  years  of  my  life  been,  though  they  have 
not  attained  to  the  days  of  the  years  of  the  life  of 
my  fathers'  in  the  days  of  their  pilgrimage."  Some 
times,  too,  we  tire  of  the  fare  at  these  stations  and 
long  to  partake  of  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Life,  and 
to  drink  of  the  fountain  that  flows  from  beneath  the 
throne  in  that  kingdom  in  which  are  concentrated  all 
the  sweetest  names  known  to  mortal  tongue — Mother, 
Father,  Jesus,  Heaven,  Home. 


THE    WITHERED    FLOWER.  141 


THE  WITHERED  FLOWER. 

Mother,  thy  blossom  is  not  dead, 

Tho'  withering  it  lies  ; 
Exotic,  God  transplanted  it 

To  bloom  in  Paradise. 

Too  fragile  for  our  rugged  clime, 

To  cheer  thy  heart  'twas  given, 
Then  claimed,  to  draw  thy  thoughts  from  earth 

And  center  them  in  Heaven. 

Tho'  brief  its  stay,  it  brought  to  thee 

A  blessing  from  above  ; 
It  touched  the  joysprings  of  thy  heart 

And  waked  new  chords  of  love. 

And  while  thou  feel'st  that  something  bright 

Is  from  thy  pathway  gone  ; 
There's  comfort  in  the  glorious  thought, 

That  it  is  still  thine  own. 

Like  thee,  I  miss  a  lovely  flower, 

Transferred  from  earthly  blight ; 
But  we  will  claim  our  blossoms  when 

We  tread  the  Fields  of  Light. 


142  MUSINGS. 


MUSINGS, 

If  over  the  shadowy  bridge  of  Death 
Our  friends  could  recross  the  Jordan's  tide, 
With  the  same  sweet  voice,  the  tender  smile, 
And  walk  with  us  for  a  little  while, 
As  in  the  days  vanished,  side  by  side ; 

With  all  they  have  seen  and  felt  and  know, 
Of  things  not  "  lawful "  for  them  to  show, 
Do  you  really  think  we  could  wish  it  so  ? 

Ah  !  nevermore  could  they  seem  the  same, 
Who  have  walked  with  Jesus  the  streets  of  gold; 
Who've  caught  the  fragrance  of  that  bright  sphere, 
Where  summertime  lasts  thro'  all  the  year — 
This  life  to  them  were  "a  tale  that's  told  ;" 
And  we  could  never  commune  again 
Of  common  sorrows  and  joys,  as  when 
They  knew  no  paths  but  the  paths  of  men. 

"The  Lord  knows  best,"  we  are  wont  to  say, 
And  seemingly  bow  to  His  gracious  will ; 
But  in  the  deep  silence  of  the  soul, 
Scarce  understood  and  beyond  control, 
Somewhat  of  rebellion  lingers  still ; 


MISSIONS.  143 

For  the  way  seems  barren — we  miss  them  so, 

Wherever  we  turn,  wherever  we  go, 

Who  have  shared  our  pleasures  and  cares  below. 

I  know  'tis  best  we  cannot  recall 
Those  who  have  crossed  to  the  farther  shore ; 

And  the  beautiful  promise  thrills  our  breast, 

That  for  us  "remains"  also,  that  "rest" 
When  the  farewells  and  partings  of  earth  are  o'er ; 

And  time  doth  soften  the  deepest  grief, 

And  afterwhile  there  will  come  relief, 

For  the  longest  path  of  life  is  brief. 


MISSIONS. 

How  a  Christian  in  the  nineteenth  century  can 
be  opposed  to  either  home  or  foreign  missions  is  in 
comprehensible,  with  the  work  of  the  great  Exemplar 
of  Christianity  before  us  as  given  in  the  gospel.  In 
His  teachings  and  ministrations  to  His  own  people, 
Jesus  illustrated  the  work  of  the  home  missions  ;  and 
that  of  the  foreign,  when  he  went  into  the  coasts  of 
Tyre  and  Sidon  and  healed  the  daughter  of  the  Ca- 
naanitish  woman  of  whom  He  declared  that  He  had 


144  MISSIONS. 

not  found  so  great  faith,  "No,  not  in  Israel."  The 
same  faith  and  zeal  is  characteristic  of  foreign  nations 
when  they  receive  the  gospel  at  the  present  time. 
Not  long  since  I  was  reading  a  short  sketch  of  one  of 
the  mission  stations  in  Mexico.  The  people  who  had 
received  the  word  gladly  were  very  poor,  but  so  im 
pressed  were  they  with  the  importance  of  sending  the 
gospel  to  others,  that  they  gave  of  their  low  wages 
until  the  missionary  had  to  compel  them  to  desist. 
They  had  the  spirit  of  the  primitive  Christians  upon 
them.  A  similar  report  comes  from  other  foreign 
fields,  while  we  who  were  nursed  in  the  very  lap  of 
the  gospel,  alas,  give  so  grudgingly.  Ah !  if  we  would 
only  think. 

The  importance  of  this  work  is  impressed  upon 
every  page  of  the  New  Testament.  Methinks  the 
great  mission  field  was  in  the  mind  of  God,  with  His 
Son  to  institute  the  work,  when  the  first  promise  was 
made,  that  the  "seed  of  the  woman  should  bruise  the 
serpent's  head."  And  then  before  Jesus  left  the  courts 
of  light  to  enter  upon  His  work,  as  if  to  comfort  Him 
in  view  of  the  great  sacrifice  He  was  about  to  make 
for  a  lost  world,  the  Father  said  to  Him  : 

"  Ask  of  me  and  I  shall  give  thee  the  heathen  for 
thine  inheritance,  and  the  uttermost  part  of  the  earth 


MISSIONS.  145 

for  thy  possession."  Eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-nine 
years  have  measured  their  revolutions  upon  the  dial 
of  time  since  the  redemption  price  was  paid,  and  the 
cry,  "  It  is  finished  !"  announced  to  man  that  the  last 
link  in  the  chain  which  bound  him  to  the  Law  was 
broken.  Forty-three  days  later  the  risen  Redeemer, 
having  led  his  disciples  out  as  far  as  Bethany,  blessed 
them  and  said  :  "  Go  ye  into  all  the  world  and  preach 
the  gospel  to  every  creature."  Thus  we  seejhow  tender 
ly  he  carried  the  heathen  upon  his  heart.  His  last 
thoughts  were  given  to  them.  And  yet  how  feebly 
we  follow  His  example,  how  little  thought  we  give  to 
that  which  burdened  his  heart.  "Into  all  the  world  " 
has  been  sounding  down  the  years  for  more  than 
eighteen  centuries  with  a  force  that  should  startle  the 
listless  Christian  ;  for  its  import  is  simply  that  na 
tions  are  sitting  in  the  region  and  shadow  of  death, 
because  they  have  not  received  the  light  the  apostles 
were  commanded  to  bear  to  them.  Arid  why  have 
they  not  ?  Alas  !  that  it  should  be  said  that  it  is  on 
account  of  the  indifference  of  Christians  ;  that  while 
the  eternal  destinies  of  nations  are  hanging  on  our 
work,  self  is  engrossing  our  time  and  we  are  "  spend 
ing  money  for  that  which  is  not  bread,  and  labor  for 
that  which  satisfieth  not,"  building  up  names  or 


146  MISSIONS. 

reputations  we  hope  will  live  after  us,  not  remember 
ing  that  these  are  of  a  perishable  nature  and  may  go 
down  with  the  first  breath  of  adversity,  while  the 
character  that  is  to  be  tested  by  the  light  of  the  Last 
Day  is  being  neglected.  Could  we  but  keep  before 
our  minds  the  thought  of  the  tenderness  of  Jesus  to 
ward  the  heathens,  we  could  never  become  indifferent. 
Not  content  with  the  commission  given  to  His  dis 
ciples  as  he  was  about  to  ascend  to  Heaven,  a  half 
century  later  he  returned  to  earth,  and  appearing  to 
the  ''  beloved  disciple  "  on  the  isle  of  Patmos,  sent  an 
other  broad  and  beautiful  invitation  to  the  world,  a 
clause  of  which  reads,  "  And  let  him  that  heareth  say, 
Come."  Truly,  if  our  hearts  were  just  right,  we 
would  be  forwarding  this  invitation  to  those  who 
have  not  heard  it.  Or  could  we  stand  upon  the  sum 
mit  of  the  spiritual  Nebo  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
Land  of  Promise,  feeling  conscious  that  our  inheri 
tance  lies  over  there  ;  then  turn,  and  with  a  sweep  of 
the  landscape,  take  in  the  nations  perishing  in  idola 
try  for  want  of  the  bread  of  life  which  God  has  placed 
in  our  hands,  bidding  us  scatter  it  abroad,  methinks 
the  talk  about  not  believing  in  foreign  missions  would 
be  blotted  from  our  creed  forever,  and  we  would  be 
ready  to  give  more  time  and  money  to  this  work. 


MISSIONS.  147 

The  cry  of  "the  heathen  at  home  needing  the  gospel " 
is  a  weapon  used  simply  to  ward  off  from  our  purses 
the  claims  of  foreign  missions ;  and  those  who  use  it 
with  most  ease  have  another,  "  Charity  begins  at 
home,"  with  which  they  are  equally  skilled  when 
home  missions  present  their  claims.  In  the  hearts  of 
those  who  resort  to  these  weapons  there  is  no  room  for 
the  heathen.  As  far  as  they  are  concerned  those  who 
sit  in  the  shadow  of  idolatry  may  go  down  in  dark 
ness.  But  I  am  glad  to  know  that  the  whole  Christian 
world  is  awakening  to  the  importance  of  foreign  mis 
sionary  work.  Every  true  believer  in  the  Bible  has 
been  confident  that  such  a  time  would  come,  though, 
through  our  indifference  it  has  doubtless  been  de 
layed. 

But  we  have  His  word  that  "  not  a  jot  or  tittle 
shall  pass  from  the  law  till  all  be  fulfilled."  And 
Isaiah,  looking  with  prophetic  vision  down  the  long 
line  of  years,  and  seeing  the  fulfillment  of  the 
promise,  elsewhere  quoted,  which  was  made  to  the 
Son,  was  constrained  to  exclaim,  "  He  shall  see  of  the 
travail  of  his  soul  and  be  satisfied."  This  result  is 
being  brought  about  alone  through  the  instrumen 
tality  of  Christians  ;  and  I  thank  God  that  He  has 
given  to  the  church  men  and  women  who  are  willing 


148  OUR   MODERN    D.  D'S. 

to  consecrate  time,  money  and  talent  to  the  work  of 
hastening  the  accomplishment  of  the  time  when  ua 
nation'  shall  be  born  in  a  day."  The  fruit  of  their 
labors  is  being  gathered  into  sheaves  ready  for  garner 
ing.  But  the  field  is  large  and  the  laborers  few ; 
therefore," with  our  purses  in  our  hands,  let  us  "pray 
the  Lord  of  the  harvest  that  he  will  send  forth  more 
laborers  into  the  harvest." 


OUR  MODERN  D.  D'S. 

Alas,  alas  that  the  Pulpit 

Should  be  filled  with  great  D.  D.'s ! 
Not  once  do  the  holy  Scriptures 

Refer  to  a  class  like  these  ; 
Who  stand  in  the  pride  and  glory 

Bestowed  by  a  human  power. 
In  the  van  of  competition 

For  the  honors  of  life's  hour. 

For  how  can  the  worldly  preacher, 
Thus  seeking  for  worldly  fame, 

Tell  of  the  "meek  and  lowly" 
With  these  affixed  to  his  name  ? 


OUR    MODERN    D.  D'S.  149 

How  point  the  way  he  pointed 

Thro'  the  straight  and  narrow  gate, 

With  name  and  heart  o'erburden'd 
With  such  unhallowed  weight  ? 

Elijah,  Moses  and  David, 

Each  with  his  simple  name, 
Attained  the  loftiest  summit 

Yet  known  to  the  world  of  fame ; 
And  Paul,  the  grandest  preacher 

Whose  name  in  The  Word  we  meet, 
Gathered  rich  jewels  of  wisdom, 

Low  at  Gamaliel's  feet. 

Yet  never  did  this  vain  title 

Salute  his  consecrate  ears, 
Albeit  his  fame  has  been  spreading 

Along  the  succeeding  years, 
Till  there  is  no  nation  or  kindred, 

Or  island  in  all  the  seas, 
To  which  it  has  not  been  wafted 

On  wings  of  the  generous  breeze. 

D.  D.  or  doctor !  a  teacher — 
A  teacher  of  things  divine  ! 


OUR   MODERN    D.  D'S. 

Alas,  how  few  can  this  honor, 
Or  semblance  of  honor  decline  ! 

And  yet  'twould  seem  when  the  Master 
Hath  called  his  servant  by  name, 

He  hath  surely  lifted  him  upward 
To  the  highest  heights  of  fame. 

Besides,  there's  never  a  sentence 

In  all  God's  beautiful  word, 
To  justify  such  assumption, 

In  the  followers  (?)  of  our  Lord  ; 
Instead,  on  the  sacred  pages, 

Where  the  "old,  old  story"  is  told, 
"  Be  not  conformed"  is  written 

In  letters  of  purest  gold. 

D.  D.  or  doctor  !     How  coldly 

It  falls  from  a  brother's  lips, 
When  the  beauty  of  life  is  hidden 

Neath  Fortune's  sudden  eclipse  ; 
When  the  wings  of  Faith  are  lifting, 

And  Hope  from  the  bosom  flees, 
How  vain  seems  the  worldy  title 

As  expressed  in  these  D.  D's  ! 


PULPIT    AND    PEW.  151 

But,  Brother  !     That  thrills  the  bosom, 

Calms  the  deep  sea  of  unrest, 
And  stirs  the  tenderest  emotions 

That  live  in  the  human  breast; 
And  points  to  that  Elder  Brother, 

Who  hunger'd  and  wept  and  died, 
And  draws  us  nearer  each  other, 

And  Him,  the  crucified. 

0  preacher  !  wouldst  thou  be  useful, 

Clasp  this  message  to  thy  heart — 
No  power  can  confer  an  honor, 

On  the  one  God  sets  apart ; 
But  the  souls  he  wins  for  Jesus 

Along  his  appointed  way, 
Shall  be  his  crown  of  rejoicing 

In  the  great  "  Crowning  Day." 


PULPIT  AND  PEW. 

[The  following  lines  were  written  in  reply  to  the  above  poem, 
"Our  Modern  B.-D's.'1] 

Alas,  that  the  pew  should  hold  up  to  view 

The  foibles  and  faults  of  the  preachers! 
The  pew  ought  to  know  that  titles  and  show 

Are  to  meet  the  demand  of  its  creatures. 


152  PULPIT   AND    PEW. 


A  preacher  may  be,  sans  college  degree, 

Instructive  to  saint  and  to  sinner; 
The  wide  gaping  pew  shows  learning  can  do 

But  little  as  an  audience  winner. 

Tho'  prudent  and  holy,  he  succeeds  but  slowly, 

With  no  D.   D.  to  swell  on  the  eye; 
Even  those  that  deride  these  tokens  of  pride, 

Will  let  him  in  solitude  die. 

It  is  vain  to  contrast  the  now  with  the  past, 

And  tell  us  of  David  and  Paul; 
The  pews  of  those  days  made  no  such  displays 

Of  pride  as  now  greet  us  all. 

Those  that  sat  in  the  pew,  dressed  not  as  they  do 

Now  in  gems  and  in  silks  that  rustle; 
With  headgear  and  a'  that  yclept  bonnet  or  hat, 

High-heeled  shoes  and  overgrown  bustle. 

Not  with  silver  and  gold  were  they  tricked  out  of  old, 

With  coiffure  and  costly  apparel; 
Steel  hoops  were  unknown  and  no  dresses  were  shown 

Bulging  out  like  the  sides  of  a  barrel. 

Then  the  pew  worshipped  God  more  than  money  and  sod — 
Yea,  they  worshiped  in  truth  and  in  spirit; 

Preachers  then  preached  the  word  and  truth  only  was  heard, 
Because  people  assembled  to  hear  it. 

Now  'tis  different  far,  some  first-magnitude  star 

Alone  in  the  pulpit  can  stand; 
The  pompous  D.  D.,  as  the  teacher  we  see 

In  response  to  the  churches'  demand. 


PULPIT    AND    PEW.  153 

Were  St.  Paul  now  alive,  scant  support  he'd  derive 

From  tlie  fashion  filled  pews  of  to-day; 
Were  the  truth  simply  told,  as  it  was  once,  of  old, 

Not  e'en  the  church  member  would  stay. 

— [W.  H.  B.,  of  Denton,  Texas. 

0,  W.  H.  B.!  Methinks  I  can  see 
At  the  end  of  thy  name  that  "pompous  D.  D.!" 
Or  thou  never  had'st  tried  to  excuse  all  the  pride 
To  that  useless  title  so  nearly  allied  ! 

'Till  now  I  ne'er  knew  that  the  minister  true 

Was  rigged  out  in  titles  to  "  draw  "  for  the  pew  ! 

Or  ne'er  would  the  thought,  with  such  thankfulness 

fraught, 
Have  come,  that  alone  for  God's  glory  he  wrought. 

So  this,  suppose  I,  is  the  true  reason  why 

In  the  furrows  arust  so  many  plows  lie; 

From    their    God-chosen   track  have    the    preachers 

turned  back 
To  await  the  "  D.  D."  they  unhappily  lack  ! 

When  the  prophet  of  old  bade  Israel  behold 
The  scenes  to  his  view  by  Jehovah  unrolled, 
He  did  not  partake  of  their  sins,  for  the  sake 
Of  "  drawing  "  an  audience  whenever  he  spake. 


154  PULPIT    AND    PEW. 

And  nowhere  can  I  see,  in  God's  Book  of  decree, 
That  for  preachers  the  people  a  pattern  should  be; 
If  'tis  there  I've  been  blind,  for  I've  been  inclined 
To  think  the  reverse  is  what  Christ  designed. 

Ah  !  surely  the  Pew  must  desire  that  the  true, 
And  not  worthless  titles,  be  held  up  to  view  ! 
God's  Word  in  his  hand  the  preacher  should  stand, 
A  pure  gospel's  all  that  the  church  doth  demand. 

Then  let  preachers  be  from  small  vanities  free, 
If  they  in  the  pew  would  simplicity  see ; 
Nor  fall  in  the  train  of  the  thoughtless  and  vain, 
Who,  thro'  titles,  to  worldy  renown  would  attain. 

I  have  nothing  to  say  of  the  dress,  plain  or  gay ; 
Let  the  preacher  and  people  adorn  as  they  may  ; 
'Twas  never  God's  will  that  the  world  should  stand 

still- 
Laws  of  change  and  of  progress  His  mandates  fulfill. 

Love  of  beauty  and  art  of  our  life  is  apart — 
To  love  what  is  lovely  God  gave  us  the  heart  ; 
The  gold  of  the  mine,  by  His  wisdom  divine, 
Was  given  us  to  use  as  our  tastes  may  incline. 


PULPIT   AND    PEW.  155 

With  a  questioning  air  there  are  those  who  compare 
The  styles  of  the  present  with  fashions  that  were; 
And  make  "much  ado"  about  gems  and  styles  new — 
Israel's  women  had  fashions  and  ornaments  too  ! 

And  then  when  I  read,  with  a  view  to  take  heed, 
Jesus'  word — which  will  truly  meet  all  human  need  ; 
There's  never  a  line  about  fashion's  design, 
Or  outward  adornment,  that  I  can  divine. 

But  clearly  to  those  who  would  question,  He  shows, 
By  purest  of  logic  and  plainest  of  prose, 
That  all  that  is  sin  from  a  fountain  within, 
(Not  with  fashion  or  unwashen  hands)  doth  begin. 

And,  if  it  befall  there  can  be  found  in  all 
The  church,  one  too  stylish  to  hear  such  as  Paul, 
Deem  it  not  over  bold  that  the  church  should  be  told 
It  were  high  time  to  turn  such  an  one  from  the  fold. 

On  the  earth's  verdant  sod  methinks  there  ne'er  trod 
A  people  more  true  in  the  worship  of  God, 
Than  to-day  fill  the  pews  to  receive  the  "glad  news" — 
0  let  not  the  preacher  his  mission  abuse  ! 


156  DEATH. 

But  no  titles  they'll  bear  in  the  day  heavenly  fair, 
When  from  Pulpit  and  Pew  the  Redeemed  shall  meet, 

where, 

All  radiant  with  gold  and  treasures  untold, 
To  their  vision  the  wonders  of  Heaven  shall  unfold  ! 


DEATH. 

Death,  the  inexorable,  is  abroad  in  our  land, 
gathering  recruits  for  eternity,  as  the  recent  depart 
ure  from  our  midst  of  some  whose  faces  had  long 
been  familiar,  fully  attests.  Unlike  other  recruiting 
officers,  he  spares  neither  age,  sex  nor  condition  ;  that 
he  was  born,  and  that  he  died,  commemorating  the 
two  important  events,  alike  of  the  aged  and  the  in 
fant.  And  the  question,  "  If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live 
again?"  comes  to  the  mind  of  this  generation  with  the 
same  force  that  it  did  to  that  of  the  man  of  Uz, 
centuries  ago  ;  and  happy  is  he  who  can  say  with 
Job :  "  All  the  days  of  my  appointed  time  will  1 
wait  till  my  change  come;"  adding  with  full  assur 
ance,  "For  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and 
that  He  shall  stand  at  the  latter  day  upon  the  earth  ; 
and  though  after  my  skin  worms  destroy  this  body, 


DEATH.  157 

yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see  God,  whom  I  shall  see  for 
myself,  and  mine  eyes  shall  behold." 

It  may  seem  out  of  place  to  speak  of  death  here 
in  this  sunny  land  of  poetry  and  song,  while  the 
verdure  of  summer  still  clothes  our  woods ;  and  so  it 
would  be,  if  death,  like  other  objects  in  nature,  had 
its  appointed  times  ;  but  it  has  not. 

"Leaves  have  their  times  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set,  but  all — 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O,  death!" 

Even  as1  I  write,  only  a  stone's  cast  from  our 
door,  the  remains  of  one  who  has  sailed  out  into  the 
unknown  seas,  are  being  conveyed  to  their  last  rest 
ing  place ;  but  she  leaves  behind  the  sweet  assurance 
that  she  has  fallen  asleep  to  wait  a  joyful  resurrec 
tion  ;  and  this  morning,  while  mourning  friends  are 
missing  the  feeble  voice,  and  ministering  hands  are 
idle  and  listless,  since  these  ministrations  are  no 
more  needed,  she,  in  all  the  brightness  and  vigor  of 
youth,  is  singing  the  song  of  the  Redeemed  in  Para 
dise.  Longfellow,  in  his  beautiful  poetic  way,  has 
said  : 

"There  is  no  death — what  seems  so  is  transition  " 

But  what  is  death,  and  what  is  its  office  ?     We 


158  DEATH. 

are  accustomed  to  look  upon  fever  as  a  disease — an 
enemy  ;  but  instead  hygiene  teaches  that  it  comes  as 
a  friend  to  release  us  from  the  grasp  of  an  enemy.  So 
death  comes  to  open  the  prison  doors  of  the  Christian 
— to  break  the  iron  bars  that  intervene,  and  set  the 
spirit  free.  Then  wherefore  start  at  his  approach  ? 

A  traveler  in  foreign  countries,  weary  with 
wandering,  turns  with  delight  to  the  home  which  he 
has  not  seen,  it  may  be,  for  years.  Hope  cheers  his 
heart,  and  smiles  brighten  his  face,  as  imagination 
pictures  the  joy  his  return  will  give.  But  as  the  fondly- 
remembered  scenes,  familiar  haunts,  and  all  the 
happy  surroundings  of  home  burst  upon  his  sight, 
Hope  for  the  first  time  gives  place  to  Fear — fear  that 
some  loved  face  was  missing;  that  some  shadow  has 
fallen  upon  the  dear  old  place.  But  this  is  not  the 
case  with  the  Christian.  He  has  constant  assurance 
that  all  is  well  at  Home.  His  Father  is  a  King,  who 
permits  no  evil  to  come  near  the  dwellers  there.  His 
Elder  Brother  is  preparing  a  mansion  for  him,  and 
those  who  enter  there  will  go  no  more  out  forever. 
Besides,  he  has  more  friends  and  relatives  there  than 
on  earth.  And  he  cannot  arrive  unexpectedly,  because 
his  name  is  already  registered,  and  "a  great  multitude 
that  no  man  can  number,"  are  standing  upon  the 


LINES.  159 

beach  awaiting  his  arrival ;  while  a  convoy  of  angels 
has  been  sent  down  to  escort  him  over  the  River. 
Then,  with  his  passport  written  upon  his  forehead, 
and  so  many  assurances  of  welcome,  why  should  he 
doubt  and  tremble  upon  the  threshold  of  his  Father's 
House  ?  

LINES. 

[Suggested  by  a  sermon  preached  by  Rev.  Dr.  Hendricks,  brother 
of  the  late  Vice-President  of  the  United  States.] 

'Twas  holy  time,  and  as  I  sat  within 
Blest  Zion's  sacred  walls,  and  heard  the  words 
Of  eloquence  fall  from  the  stranger's  lips, — 
The  theme,  the  Passion  of  our  glorious  Lord — 
My  thoughts  on  wings  of  Faith  were  carried  back 
To  Calvary's  rugged  brow,  on  which  a  scene 
Transpired,  more  wildly  grand  than  e'er  before 
Or  since,  was  witnessed  by  the  sons  of  man. 
'Twas  there  the  blessed  Savior  of  the  world, — 
The  One  alone — among  the  mighty  host 
That  dwell  within  the  Paradise  of  God — 
Found  worthy  to  unclasp  the  seals  that  closed 
The  Book  of  Life ;  'twas  there  He  bled  and  died, 
And  'round  its  sacred  summit  cluster  all 
The  hopes,  that  cheer  the  heart  and  buoy  it  up 
Amid  the  shipwrecks  and  the  storms  of  life. 


160  LINES. 

How  oft  by  faith  the  Christian  stands 

Upon  that  sacred  mountain,  and  beholds 

The  mingled  stream  that  gushed  from  His  pierced  side; 

And  almost  hears  the  groans,  the  dying  groans, 

Wrung  from  his  anguished  soul ,! 

Nature  was  shocked 

At  the  unwonted  scene — the  earth  was  wrapped 
In  midnight  darkness  ;  yea,  the  very  sun 
Did  veil  his  face,  and  would  not  look  upon 
The  awful  tragedy  ;  the  rocks  were  rent, 
And  earth,  sad  earth,  in  wonder,  trembled  too. 
Methinks  that  loved  and  loving  ones  drew  near 
And  looked  with  anguish  on  the  mournful  scene ; — 
The  mother  wept,  as  only  mothers  weep  ; 
And  tears,  no  doubt,  in  sorrow,  gushed  from  eyes 

"Unused  to  weep!" 

****** 

But  honor  to  the  name 
Of  Him  who  reigns  alike  in  Heaven  and  in 
The  earth  !     The  grave  refused  to  hold  its  dead 
And  when  three  days  had  slowly  passed  away, 
A  bright-winged  seraph  from  the  upper  world 
Was  sent  to  roll  away  the  stone  that  barred 
The  entrance  to  the  tomb,  and  Jesus  'rose, 


LINES.  161 

Triumphant  Conqueror  !  and  now  He  stands 
Before  His  Father's  throne  and  pleads  our  cause. 
Consoling  thought!  that  in  that  city  bright — 
Whose  very  streets  are  paved  with  purest  gold — 
Whose  pearly  gates  stand  open  night  and  day, 
To  welcome  those  who  seek  eternal  rest — 
The  risen  Savior  pleads  for  even  me ! 

Such  thoughts  as  these  were  passing  through  my  mind, 

WThile  listening  to  the  aged  man  of  God, 

Whose  silvery  hair,  with  wondrous  eloquence, 

Pointed  in  silence  to  the  waiting  tomb. 

I  may  not  look  upon  his  face  again, 

Nor  list'  with  wrapt  attention  to  his  words, 

While  on  the  earth  ;  but  in  that  coming  Day, 

When  cares  of  life  shall  be  forever  past, 

When  moon  and  stars  shall  cease  to  wax  and  wane, 

And  th'  heavens  are  rolled  together  as  a  scroll, 

And  that  unnumbered  host  from  East,  West,  South 

And  North,  which  John  beheld  from  Patmos  Isle, 

Shall  gather  'round  the  judgment  seat  of  Christ, 

Methinks  I'll  see  his  pleasant  face  again — 

His  massive  brow  encircled  by  a  wreath 

Of  Amaranthine  flowers,  and  on  his  head 

A  crown,  bedecked  with  many  brilliant  gems. 


162  MY    GIFT. 

And  then  in  robes  of  pure  and  spotless  white — 
Washed  in  the  blood  that  flowed  from  Calvary — 
May  we  all  join  the  "  countless  multitude" 
To  sing  the  praises  of  the  Lamb  throughout 
The  endless  cycles  of  Eternity  ! 


MY  GIFT. 

I  have  a  gift,  sacred  and  pure, 
And  dearer  far  to  me  than  gold  ; 

And  when  great  trials  I  endure, 

It  is  my  solace,  ever  sure, 

And  hence  its  worth  cannot  be  told. 

This  precious  gift,  with  beauty  rife, 
Was  given  in  those  tender  years, 
Ere  I  had  touched  the  wine  of  life, 
Or  known  the  mock'ry  of  the  strife 
Betwixt  its  pleasures  and  its  tears. 

Mine  only  !     'Tis  a  glorious  star 

That  lights  me  o'er  life-billows  wild  ; 
That  sends  its  radiance  afar 
To  where  the  dang'rous  breakers  are, 
And  guides  me,  as  I  were  a  child. 


MY    GIFT.  163 

Albeit  'tis  mine,  it  is  so  bright, 

That  even  strangers,  far  and  near, 
Whose  pathway  leads  thro'  gloom  of  night, 
And  who  have  suffered  from  earth's  blight, 
Bask  in  its  comfort  and  its  cheer. 

And  it  is  sweet  as  is  the  breath 

Of  asphodel  or  eglantine, 
That  upward  floats,  an  incense-wreath, 
From  censor  or  from  urn  beneath, 

When  dewdrops  sparkle  as  old  wine. 

It  is  a  rosy  dream  of  things 

That  might  have  been,  that  may  not  be  ; 
A  mem'ry  of  the  past  it  brings, 
And  bears  upon  its  shad'wy  wings, 

A  vision  of  futurity. 

A  star,  a  breath,  a  dream,  my  gift 

Is  various — a  mixt  metaphor  ; 
Beneath  its  light,  the  shadows  lift, 
Its  odor  sends  ill  winds  adrift, 

Its  dream  is  gladness  evermore. 

The  fear  'twill  be  recalled  oft  clings 
Unto  my  soul  and  gives  me  pain  ; 
Until  I  hear  the  sweep  of  wings 


164  MY    GIFT. 

Fresh  from  Parnassus'  famous  springs, 
Then  my  heart  leaps  with  joy  again. 

Some  tell  me  'tis  of  little  worth, 

And  class  it  with  inferior  things  ; 
They  dream  not  that  it  had  its  birth 
In  Heaven,  not  upon  the  earth, 

And  that  Heaven's  air  still  to  it  clings. 

To  use  this  gift  I'm  grown  too  old, 

Say  others,  tho'  sent  from  the  Throne  ; 
And  yet  the  Giver  hath  not  told 
That  e'er  a  napkin  should  enfold 
This  talent,  given  for  my  own; 

But  that  I  use  it,  by  His  grace, 

For  Him — a  duty  passing  sweet ; 
Until  I,  summoned  from  this  place, 
To  stand  before  Him,  face  to  face, 
May  lay  its  increase  at  His  feet. 

And  since  the  Lord  did  give  it,  free, 
I  surely  feel  that  it  were  wrong 

To  list  to  those  who  counsel  me 

To  let  it  rust  or  buried  be — 
This  ever-blessed  gift  of  Song. 


DRIFTINGS, 


BY    MRS.    MAY    BEDFORD-EAGAN. 


"Sleep  soft,  beloved!"  we  sometimes  say, 
Who  have  no  tune  to  charrn  away 

Sad  dreams  that  thro'  the  eyelids  creep; 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 


MEMOIR  OF  MRS.  MAY  BEDFORD-EAGAN. 

In  a  small  cottage,  situated  on  the  picturesque  banks  of 
the  Hondo,  in  Llano  county,  Texas,  October  23,  1858.  May,  the 
eldest-born  of  John  Joseph  and  Lou  Singletary -Bedford  first 
opened  her  eyes  to  the  pleasures  of  earth  and — its  many  sor 
rows.  I  speak  advisedly  in  this  case,  and  not  from  any  mor 
bid  sentimentality,  inasmuch  as  her  earliest  memories  were  of 
the  time  when  civil  dissensions  were  agitating  our  great  coun 
try  ;  and  when  neighbors  and  friends  and  kindred  were  estranged 
on  account  of  political  differences.  The  scene  of  one  of  her 
first  romances,  Ruth,  was  laid  in  Texas,  and  the  story  shows 
how  deeply  graven  on  her  heart  and  memory  were  the  experi 
ences  of  those  troublous  times.  She  was  by  no  means  deficient 
in  cheerfulness,  but  she  possessed  a  degree  of  thoughtfulness 
not  often  observed  in  one  so  young,  as  a  result  of  her  surround 
ings  and  the  fact  that  the  companions  of  her  childhood  were 
mostly  those  of  mature  years.  In  one  place  she  says :  "I  am 
so  constituted  that  work  and  action  have  seemed  pleasure,  and 
I  have  not  had  time  to  think  of  what  was  missing.  I  mean  I 
have  not  known  till  now  that  childhood  is  past  and  I  have 
never  been  a  child." 

When  only  four  years  of  age  she  learned  her  letters,  stand  - 
ing  at  my  side  when  I  was  at  work,  pointing  to  each  letter 
with  her  own  little  fingers.  Shortly  afterward  she  started  to 
school,  where  she  soon  learned  to  read.  It  is  fair  to  state, 
however,  that  she  was  no  prodigy ;  books  with  her  simply  took 
the  place  of  childish  companions.  As  she  advanced  in  years 
and  knowledge,  a  fine  literary  taste  was  manifested  in  her, 
which  she  cultivated  more  from  the  personal  pleasure  to  be 


170  MEMOIR  OF  MRS.  MAY  BEDFORD-EAGAN. 


derived  from  it,  than  from  any  ambition  for  the  future.  She 
early  formed  a  habit  of  committing  her  thoughts  to  paper; 
and  when  in  college  her  letters  home  assumed  the  form  of  a 
diary,  in  which  she  chronicled  the  occurrences  of  her  daily 
life.  Before  leaving  school  she  contributed  several  articles  to 
the  press;  and  when  text-books  were  finally  laid  aside,  she 
varied  her  home  duties  with  literary  work.  Madeline,  Ruth, 
Mizpah.  Lights  and  Shadows,  and  other  serials  followed  each 
other  so  closely  one  could  scarcely  realize  that  literature  was 
merely  the  incident  and  not  the  main  object  of  her  life.  But 
this  was  true.  When  "copy"  was  called  for,  she  would  put 
aside  whatever  was  engaging  her  at  the  time,  and,  taking  her 
pencil,  would  write,  seemingly  without  any  effort  of  mind — as 
if  her  thoughts  were  already  arranged,  as  I  suppose  was  the 
case;  then,  often  without  revising  or  even  glancing  over  the 
manuscript,  would  send  it  to  the  office,  and  resume  her  sus 
pended  work. 

Her  reading  was  extensive  and  varied.  She  was  especially 
fond  of  Humboldt's  Cosmos,  geological  works,  Ruskin's  and 
others  of  that  class.  In  accordance  with  her  mood,  poet, 
philosopher,  scientist  or  novelist  became  her  companion.  And 
yet  so  unaffected  was  she  in  conversation,  and  so  charming  in 
manner,  that  even  strangers  came  under  the  magnetism  of  her 
gifts  and  were  drawn  to  her  as  to  a  friend.  Apropos  to  this, 
a  touching  incident  occurred  in  connection  with  a  visit  which 
she  made  to  Mobile  in  1882  as  correspondent  of  the  Pensacola 
Post:  While  at  the  Battle  House  she  formed  the  acquaintance 
of  a  Mrs.  Rowe,  which  seemed  mutually  agreeable.  After 
spending  a  few  pleasant  days  together  they  separated  with  lit 
tle  probability  of  ever  meeting  again .  However,  in  1885,  Mrs . 
Rowe  had  occasion  to  stop  for  awhile  in  Pensacola,  the  home 
of  her  sometime  friend,  and  decided  to  hunt  her  up.  She 
called  at  the  postofnce  as  the  most  probable  place  of  finding 
her  address,  and  made  inquiries  of  the  clerks.  They  could  give 
her  no  information,  but  suggested  that  she  await  the  arrival 


MEMOIR  OF  MRS.  MAY  BEDFORD-EAGAN.  171 


of  Mr.  Eagan,  the  postmaster.  When  he  came,  she  asked  if 
he  could  tell  anything  about  a  young  lady  whose  Christian 
name  was  May,  and  whose  father  was  editor  of  a  Pensacola 
paper — she  had  forgotten  the  surname.  The  postmaster  was  so 
startled  he  could  not  speak  for  some  moments .  He  then  re 
plied:  "Yes — she  was  my  wife,  but  she  is  dead."  Mrs.  Rowe 
was  greatly  shocked  and  grieved.  The  incident  is  given  sim 
ply  as  illustrative  of  the  statement  that  even  casual  friends  did 
not  easily  forget  her. 

As  a  writer  her  popularity  was  phenomenal  She  depicted 
life  in  its  true  colors,  and  so  touched  the  great  throbbing 
human  heart;  and  she  wrote  for  the  pleasure  of  writing,  as 
said  elsewhere,  and  not  for  fame.  All  through  her  work  there 
seems  to  be  a  looking  forward  to  the  beauties  of  that  Unseen 
Country  whose  very  borderland  she  was  unconsciously  tread 
ing. 

On  April  30,  1882,  she  was  married  to  Mr.  John  Eagan, 
a  gentleman  of  great  popularity  and  many  personal  attractions. 
Her  health  had  not  been  good  for  sometime,  and  after  her 
marriage  she  wrote  little.  She  commenced  a  romance,  and  had 
written  about  one  hundred  pages  when  their  residence  was 
burned  and  the  manuscript  with  it.  She  never  attempted  to 
rewrite  it.  Only  one  piece  written  after  her  marriage  has  been 
published,  "Breaking  Up."  It  appears  at  the  close  of  this 
volume . 

Mrs.  Eagan  professed  faith  in  Christ  at  eleven  years  of 
age,  and  some  years  later  united  with  the  Baptist  church  at 
Columbus,  Kentucky,  and  was  baptized  in  the  Mississippi  by 
Rev.  C.  C.  Chaplin.  Firm  in  the  faith  and  doctrines  of  this 
church,  she  was  yet  tolerant  of  all  other,  denominations.  Her 
husband  had  been  raised  a  Catholic,  and  they  had  in  their 
home  an  elegant  Catholic  family  Bible  which  they  sometimes 
read  together  She  never  tried  to  convince  him  that  the  tenets 
of  that  people  were  wrong.  Instead,  she  often  went  with  him 
to  the  Catholic  church,  and  then  he  would  go  with  her  to  her 


172  MEMOIR  OF  MRS.  MAY  BEDFORD-EAGAN. 


own.  By  this  means  all  prejudice  was  prevented.  She  once 
said  to  me  that  the  one  great  object  of  her  life  was  to  lead 
him  to  become  a  true  Christian.  I  believe  that  she  succeeded. 
He  promised  her  on  her  deathbed  that  he  would  meet  her  in 
Heaven,  though  he  was  not  converted  until  about  a  year  after 
ward.  Since  that  time  his  life  has  been  consistent  with  his 
profession. 

But  the  life  so  beautiful  and  unselfish  and  full  of  promise 
was  destined  to  be  short.  She  came  to  us  at  Bay  Cottage,  our 
lovely  country  home  which  she  and  I  had  named  on  account 
of  the  beautiful  bay  it  overlooked  and  the  graceful  laurel  or 
bay  trees  that  surrounded  it,  in  the  last  days  of  July.  Her 
health  had  been  failing  for  sometime,  and  the  following  day, 
Tuesday,  a  physician  was  called,  but  we  did  not  apprehend 
anything  serious  at  the  time.  On  Sunday  morning  she  seemed 
quite  cheerful.  In  the  evening,  however,  her  thoughts  took  a 
more  serious  turn,  and  she  told  me  she  wanted  "Shall  we 
gather  at  the  River"  sung  at  her  funeral.  She  then  asked  me 
to  bring  her  Mrs.  Browning's  poems,  and  from  "The  Sleep" 
she  selected  this  stanza  to  be  engraved  on  her  tombstone: 

''And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 

And  'round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  one— most  loving  of  you  all  — 
Say,  '  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall, 

'He  giveth  His  beloveth  sleep '" 

She  then  requested  me  to  sing  "How  Firm  a  Foundation;" 
but  for  all  this  I  could  not  think  death  so  near,  she  seemed 
so  full  of  hope;  and  frequently  during  the  succeeding  week 
spoke  of  what  she  would  do  when  she  got  well.  But  on  the 
next  Sabbath — a  fitting  time  for  the  closing  of  such  a  life;  we 
realized  that  she  could  not  live.  When  told  by  her  father 
that  she  was  dying,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  and  repeated 
the  beautiful  words  of  Job:  "I  know  that  my  Redeemer 


MEMOIR  OF  MRS.  MAY  BEDFORD-EAGAN.  173 


livetli.'  I  only  go  before;  you  will  all  come."  She  then  gave 
directions  about  her  casket  and  burial  robes,  requesting  that 
everything  be  plain  and  simple.  When  done,  she  turned  to 
me  and  said:  "  I  do  this  that  you  may  not  worry  over  these 
things  when  I  am  gone."  Feeling  that  the  time  was  short, 
she  now  took  an  affectionate  leave  of  her  weeping  friends, 
kissing  and  caressing  them  tenderly,  and  expressing  regret  at 
the  absence  of  two  brothers.  Then,  while  a  sweet  smile  en- 
wreathed  her  features,  lifting  her  hands  upward,  without  a 
struggle,  she  entered  upon  that  Sabbath  of  rest  that  remains 
for  the  people  of  God — on  the  12th  of  August,  1883,  not  hav 
ing  quite  completed  her  twenty-fifth  year.  The  funeral  at 
Milton  on  the  following  day  was  largely  attended,  the  services 
being  conducted  by  Rev.  J.  S.  Parks  of  Pensacola,  assisted  by 
one  of  the  local  ministers.  A  number  of  the  business  houses 
of  the  city  were  closed  during  the  services  at  the  church,  a 
degree  of  respect  never  before  paid  by  that  people  to  one  so 
young. 

Under  the  heading  of  "The  Death  of  an  Eminent  Literary 
Lady,"  a  special  from  Pensacola  to  the  New  Orleans  Picayune 
under  date  of  August  13,  says:  "The  community  deeply 
sympathize  with  Mr.  John  Eagan,  collector  of  internal  revenue 
for  West  Florida  and  a  leading  member  of  the  city  council 
whose  wife  died  at  Milton  on  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  very 
bloom  of  a  youthful  and  happy  wifehood.  Mrs.  Eagan,  a 
daughter  of  Mrs.  Lou  Singletary -Bedford,  the  poetess,  was 
lovely  and  accomplished;  was  possessed  of  fine  literary  taste, 
and  had  won  recognition  as  a  writer  of  rare  talents .  Her  amia 
bility  had  won  her  troops  of  friends  and  admirers.  Her  un 
timely  death  will  be  profoundly  lamented .  *  *  *  This  after 
noon  the  Odd  Fellows  lodge,  the  mayor,  and  representatives  of 
the  city  government,  and  a  large  number  of  citizens  took  a 
special  train  and  attended  the  funeral  at  Milton  in  a  body,  to 
manifest  their  appreciation  of  the  husband,  and  their  lament 
at  the  demise  of  his  lovely  consort."  L.  S.  B 


DRIFTINGS. 


Drifting  along  with  the  tide,  washed  hither  and 
yon,  these  little  scraps  are  thrown  into  the  heaving, 
surging  sea  of  Literature — it  may  be  to  sink  to  the 
bottom  ;  or,  rising  with  the  tide,  they  may  be  cast 
upon  the  shores  of  some  unknown  land.  They  claim 
no  merit  in  themselves,  but  are  mere  fragments 
which,  on  the  ceaseless  waves  of  Thought,  have 
accumulated,  until  now  they  form  a  heap  of  scattered 
ideas,  and  I  have  decided  to  send  them  out  on  a  frail 
bark  to  try  what  good  they  may  do.  If  the  world 
likes  them  many  such  will  be  launched  to  win  or 
lose.  What  the  issue  will  be  who  can  tell  ? 

' '  Fame's  golden  temple  gleams  afar — 

You  see  the  shining  gate 
Stand  open  wide  for  those  who  learn 
To  work  and  watch  and  wait." 

Though  Fame  is  not  to  be  desired,  success  is  to  be 
sought  ;  and  if  by  patient,  constant  endeavor,  it  can 


DRIFTINGS.  175 

be  attained,  and  these  little  papers  do  any  good  in  the 
broad  field  of  men,  it  is  all  that  is  expected  of  them. 
They  are  out  with  the  tide  : 

"Drifting,  drifting  to  lands  unknown, 

From  a  world  of  love  and  care; 
Drifting  away  to  a  home  untried, 
And  hearts  that  are  beating  there." 

BY    AND    BY. 

There  is  something  so  hopeful,  and  yet  so  sad,  in 
the  little  words  "  By  and  By."  They  give  a  promise 
of  fruition,  but  at  the  same  time  there  is  a  far-off 
sound  of  something  that  is  past,  and  of  something 
you  will  have  to  lose  now,  in  order  to  obtain  the  prize 
hereafter.  You  promise  yourself,  if  your  path  be 
dark  and  dreary,  that  the  joy  in  the  by  and  by  will 
be  greater ;  that  if,  with  untiring  energy,  you  toil 
through  life,  perhaps  bruising  yourself  in  the  rough 
places,  the  rest  by  and  by  will  be  sweeter  ;  that  if 
pain,  sorrow,  suffering,  poverty,  cold,  hunger — yes,  if 
all  earthly  evils  afflict  you  here,  that  joy,  peace,  con 
tentment,  will  be  your  portion  hereafter;  that  the 
gentle  Christ  will  be  your  brother,  that  his  smile  will 
comfort  you;  and  that  for  the  sadness  which  has  been, 
you  will  have  rest,  Heaven,  home,  by  and  by. 


176  DRIPPINGS. 

BROKEN    RESOLUTIONS. 

I  was  thinking  to-day  of  the  resolutions  we  are 
constantly  making  and  breaking.  We  promise  our 
selves  that  we  will  turn  over  that  oft-turned  "  new 
leaf;"  that  we  will  lead  better,  more  consistent  lives; 
that  we  will  give  up  the  small  (?)  sins  which  we  have 
cherished  so  long.  And  we  really  intend  to  keep  this 
self-made  promise.  But  the  temptation  to  break  it 
presents  itself,  and,  without  considering  our  resolu 
tion,  or  if  we  do,  it  is  as  something  visionary,  and 
consequently  not  binding,  we  readily  yield.  If  a 
friend  were  to  come  to  us  at  such  a  time  and  say, 
"You  have  been  guilty  of  falsehood."  we  should  feel 
our  blood  boil,  and  the  fire  would  flash  from  our  eyes, 
while  in  strongest  terms  we  would  deny  the  charge. 
"  But,"  says  the  friend,  "  1  know  you  are  guilty  ;  you 
promised  YOURSELF  that  you  would  quit  that  habit, 
and  you  meant  it.  God  registered  that  promise  He 
took  note  of  it,  and  now — you  have  broken  one  of  the 
most  sacred  vows  a  person  ever  made.  It  was  God's 
Spirit  that  moved  you  to  make  it,  and  in  your  hour 
of  weakness  you  listened  to  the  tempter  and — fell.1' 


DRIFTINGS.  177 

IMPATIENCE. 

Two  wee  hands  were  lifted  to  me,  and  a  baby 
voice  with  tears  in  it,  said  pleadingly  : 

"  Titi,  pease  mend  me  br'aked  finger  !" 
I  threw  my  work  aside  exclaiming  petulantly  : 
''0  Collie !  you  are  such  a  tease  !    There  is  forever 
something  to  be  done  for  you !     Let  me  see  what  is 
the  matter  now  !" 

The  little  one  came  forward  with  her  brown  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  a  questioning  look  on  the  inno 
cent  face.  Immediately  I  regretted  my  hasty  words, 
and  taking  the  tiny  form  in  my  arms,  pressed  it  close 
ly  to  my  heart.  The  little  finger  had  really  been 
seriously  bruised,  and  needed  attention  ;  but  because 
I  did  not  wish  to  stop  my  work  just  then,  I  must 
needs  speak  crossly  to  the  baby. 

That  was  a  great  many  years  ago,  and  that  trust 
ing,  guileless  child  has  grown  to  be  a  woman.  Her 
pretty  wavy  hair  has  become  white  with  trouble  and 
care.  Her  feet  have  been  pierced  by  many  thorns — 
her  child's  heart  has  been  transformed  into  an  aching, 
troubled  woman's  heart.  Though  we  were  sisters  and 
I  many  years  older  than  she,  I  have  remained  almost 
young,  while  she  has  grown  "  so  old,  so  weary."  My 
heart  is  pained  when  I  think  how  many  of  her  child- 


1<5  DRIFTINGS. 

hood  days  might  have  been  marked  by  columns  of 
shining  gold  ;  of  how  many  gentle  words  might  have 
been  spoken,  instead  of  the  quick,  annoying  ones 
which  drove  deep  into  the  tender  heart,  and  made 
smarting  wounds  ;  and  now  I  repeat  over,  "  patience, 
patience." 

DESPONDENCY. 

Sometimes  there  comes  a  cloud  over  the  bright 
sunlit  sky  of  my  happiness,  and  I  can  see  no 
golden  light.  Friends  seem  so  far  away.  I  cannot 
reach  them,  and  they  make  no  effort  to  come  to  me.  I 
hear  no  loving,  encouraging  words  ;  feel  no  tender, 
warm  hands  upon  my  brow.  My  heart  beats  pain 
fully  slow,  for  just  then  life  is  burdensome  ;  I  almost 
wish  it  were  ended,  for  what  is  it  without  love  ? 
Then  comes  another  thought.  I  remember  a  Garden 
where  a  lone  Man  suffered  so  that  great  drops  stood 
on  His  brow  ;  then  another  scene  where  many  men 
scoffed  at  and  reviled  Him.  No  friends  came  to  take 
Him  away,  though  He  was  suffering  for  them — "They 
all  forsook  Him  and  fled."  The  sky  clears.  Again  I 
see  the  sunshine,  and  0,  how  beautiful  life  now  ap 
pears!  I  know  that  my  friends  have  not  all  forsaken 
me  ;  and,  sweeter  still,  that  my  High  Priest  is  watch- 


DRIFTINGS. 


179 


ing  and  smiling  upon  me,  even  though  in  His  agony 
His  earthly  friends  "all  forsook  Him  and  fled." 

' '  There  is  scarcely  a  line  in  the  Book  of  books, 

No  matter  how  often  read, 
That  saddens  me  like  the  little  line — 

'  They  all  forsook  Him  and  fled. ' 
In  that  trying  hour  when  His  voice  did  call, 

'  Why  hast  Thou  forsaken  Me  ?' 
When  every  sin  that  held  Him  in  thrall 

Was  a  wave  of  agony ; 
When  Judas  came  with  his  traitor  kiss, 

And  others  with  swords,  instead, 
His  chosen  ones  gave  a  startled  look, 

And  'all  forsook  Him  and  fled.'" 

WHAT    SHALL   WE    BEAD  ? 

Sometimes  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  such  as  the 
larger  portion  of  humanity  is  subject  to,  we  do  things 
for  which  our  judgment  and  higher  sense  of  duty 
and  right  afterward  reproach  us ;  and  in  some  sense 
we  are  excusable;  but  when  we  coolly  and  deliberately 
do  wrong,  there  is  no  extenuation,  no  niche  through 
which  we  can  escape  the  consequences  of  our  wrong 
doing.  There  are  two  kinds  of  wrong — one,  which  is 
self-evident  and  needs  no  explanation  ;  the  other  is 
insinuatingly  beautiful,  with  no  scars  and  marks  as  a 
warning  to  bright  eyes ;  and  often  the  deepest  pitfalls 
lie  beneath  the  greenest,  longest,  and  most  luxuriant 


180  DRIFTING8. 

• 

grass.  In  all  the  realm  of  literature  there  are  few 
more  beautiful  writers  than  Byron  and  Poe,  but  be 
neath  the  outward  garment  of  beauty  there  lurks  a 
fearful  skeleton.  Our  libraries  are  full  of  works 
whose  musical  rhythm  pleases  the  senses,  and  whose 
words  are  the  sweetest  and  choicest  our  language 
affords.  They  clothe  sin  in  a  fascinating  garb,  and 
hide  from  us  the  retribution  that  must  come.  They 
robe  sin  in  its  most  flowery  colors,  and  every  line 
seems  an  axiom,  every  sentence  a  truth.  We  read 
the  lines,  we  take  in  their  beauty,  failing  to  see  the 
sophistry  of  the  arguments.  We  imbibe  the  poison, 
and  lose  ourselves  in  a  delirious  sense  of  pleasure, 
but  the  harm  is  slowly  working  its  way.  We  lose  all 
taste  for  better,  purer  works.  We  are  blindly  seeking 
after  truth,  and  saying  :  "  Human  nature  is  the  best 
teacher,  and  these  works  are  the  best  interpreters  of 
humanity."  But  it  is  a  mistake.  The  popular  works 
of  the  day  are  not  correct  pictures  of  life.  They  take 
for  their  heroes  and  heroines,  weak,  pleasure-loving 
men  and  women — such  as  are  only  now  and  then 
found — and  make  them  types  of  the  masses.  Im 
pressionable  men  and  women  read  the  works  ;  they 
grow  to  doubt  the  purity,  the  genuineness  of  all  ac 
tions.  They  attribute  wrong  motives  to  every  one, 


DRIFTINGS.  181 

and  after  awhile  life  loses  all  its  charm  and  beauty  to 
them.  "  There  is  no  truth,"  they  say,  and  they  "have 
had  enough  of  false." 

Burn  such  books!  Throw  them  away!  Cultivate 
a  taste  for  something  better — look  at  life  from  a 
higher  standpoint.  Search  for  the  good,  the  true,  and 
doubt  all  that  seems  evil.  If  you  want  to  study 
human  nature,  study  it  from  living  models,  and  in 
every  character,  no  matter  how  much  "besmirched 
by  sin,"  you  will  find  some  good  lurking ;  and  so 
long  as  one  atom  of  good  remains,  believe  in  it 
Read  purer  works  than  Ouida,  Charles  Read  and 
others  of  that  class. 

UPROOT   THE    WEEDS. 

There  is  no  field  in  which  grass  grows  but  may 
be  cultivated  ;  no  weeds  which  infests  the  heart  but 
may  be  uprooted.  The  roots  may  be  deep,  the  seed 
wide-spread,  yet  time  and  industry  may  weaken,  and 
it  may  be,  sometimes  destroy  them. 

MUSIC. 

If  music  does  not  reach  you,  if  the  scent  of  the 
rose  is  dead,  let  not  the  thought  come  that  it  is  not ; 
that  it  was  not.  There  is  not  music  for  us  every  day, 
and  the  flowers  fade :  but  there  is  hope  enough  for 


182  DRIFTINGS. 

each  hour,  and  sometimes  the  music  will  strike  up ; 
some  day  the  air  will  be  full  of  perfume.  Only  wait 
God's  time. 

THE    BETTER    WAY. 

How  much  better  it  is  to  look  into  the  eastern 
sky  where  the  sun  is,  than  across  the  valley  where 
the  shadows  lie.  How  much  better  to  see  the  good  in 
your  neighbor  and  praise  it,  than  to  see  the  evil  and 
speak  of  it.  How  much  sweeter  to  believe  in  truth 
than  in  falsehood.  If  the  false  seem  most,  yet  know 
that  behind  it  lies  some  good  ;  and  while  in  your 
heart  you  condemn  the  evil,  seek  ever  to  find  the 
good — be  sure  it  lies  somewhere;  and  if  it  be  possible, 
draw  it  out  that  the  world  may  know  and  feel  it. 

THE    NEW   YEAR. 

The  New  Year!  How  hopeful  and  brave  are  our 
hearts,  how  expectant  of  rich  benefits  when  it  shall 
have  grown  old.  How  eagerly  we  look  ahead,  and 
build  air  castles,  all  beautiful  with  rainbow-tinted 
glass,  with  enlightened  frescoe — how  we  dream,  yet 
even  while  we  dream  the  castle  begins  to  fall.  Time 
is  rushing  on  and  the  rude  hand  of  decay  and  dissolu 
tion  grasps  ever  at  the  most  beautiful  part  of  our 
castle.  We  know  all  this  before  the  shock  comes  ;  we 


DRIFTINGS.  %  183 

know  our  castles  are  but  delicate  filagree,  but  then — 
they  are  so  beautiful.  And  even  if  this  year  brings 
nothing  but  disappointment  and  regret,  a  time  will 
come  after  all  this  waiting,  a  brighter  day  will  dawn, 
when  the  year  will  be  always  new,  when  the  pictures 
of  the  imagination  shall  be  more  than  realized.  Yes, 
a  new  year  which  shall  know  no  ending,  which  can 
not  get  old — one  long  eternity  of  bliss  in  a  home 
where  God  is  ever. 

LITTLE    THINGS. 

If  we  have  realized  the  meaning  of  our  little  acts, 
how  many  of  them  would  take  a  different  coloring ! 
How  many  pretty  things  which,  at  the  time  they  are 
said,  mean  nothing,  would  be  left  unsaid,  because  of 
the  sadness  they  might  leave  in  somebody's  heart  ; 
how  often  we  would  express  love  and  sympathy  in 
stead  of  mirth  and  ridicule  !  Sometimes  when  we  see 
even  the  friends  whom  we  love  best  placed  in  un 
pleasant  positions  the  ludicrous  side  of  the  picture 
strikes  us  and  a  gay  peal  of  laughter  bursts  thought 
lessly  from  our  lips  ;  when,  if  we  could  see  the  bruise 
it  leaves  on  somebody's  heart  we  would  suppress  our 
mirth  that  we  might  not  inflict  pain  on  a  friend. 
Scarcely  a  day  passes  that  these  little  (?)  things  do 
not  occur.  Sometimes  we  see  our  mistakes  and  could 


184  DRIFTINGS. 

correct  them,  but  false  pride  or  stubbornness  prevents; 
friends  are  estranged  and  life  loses  some  rays  of  sun 
shine  for  us ;  some  slight  pain,  some  faint  regret,  lies 
hidden  away  in  our  hearts  ;  the  memory  of  some 
thoughtless  word,  some  heartless  laugh,  conies  like  a 
shadow  and  we  cannot  forget.  Sometimes  we  see  a 
face  we  love,  with  a  look  of  pained  surprise  in  it,  and 
it  follows  us  for  days  after  ;  and  perhaps  the  happi 
ness  and  destiny  of  a  human  being  hung  on  one 
little  act  of  our  lives,  and  the  golden  links  of  friend 
ship  have  been  dissolved  by  a  light  word  or  careless 
laugh. 

THE    NIGHT   IS   COME.  • 

The  pink  flush  in  the  western  sky  spreads  itself 
over  the  pines  and  oaks;  the  few  last  leaves  which 
still  cling  to  the  almost  bare  branches  of  the  trees  are 
flaming  with  red ;  and  the  faint  cry  of  the  boys  in 
the  distance  falls  dreamily  on  the  ear ; 

"  Bells  on  the  mountain  side  tinkle  and  cease, 
Faintly  the  shadows  glide — all  is  at  peace." 

The  night  is  come — the  day  is  done ;  but  a  faint 
red  glow  stretches  across  the  horizon,  and  we  in 
sensibly  think  of  the  morrow  ;  and  then  a  grander 
thought  comes  of  that  everlasting  day  which  is  just 
beyond  the  clouds  of  earth.  Each  hour  brings  us 


DRIFTINGS.  185 

nearer  the  dawning.  We  see  the  pearl  tints  in  the 
sky,  the  golden  stars  that  gem  the  pure  azure,  the 
silvery  waters  below — all  suggestive  of  a  brighter, 
fairer  picture  ;  and  we  forget  all  doubt  and  skepticism; 
forget  the  cold  philosophy  of  Reason,  and  Faith 
comes  like  a  benediction  ;  we  KNOW  that  God  is.  The 
student  may  seek  for  perfect  knowledge  in  his  master 
ful  reasoning,  but  he  ends  in  doubt.  Living  faith  be 
longs  to  the  simple,  as  true  love  belongs  to  the  brave. 

FALLEN    LEAVES. 

When  the  yellow  light  of  the  October  sun  falls 
upon  the  great  forest  it  burns  itself  into  the  leaves, 
turning  them  yellow  and  brown  and  crimson  and 
gold  ;  and  after  a  little  while  they  fall  to  the  earth 
and  moulder  and  decay,  or  are  gathered  up  by  fair 
hands,  pressed  and  put  away — a  beautiful  memento 
of  one  bright  season.  The  days  go  on,  the  leaves  lie 
hidden  away  until  some  day,  when  the  rain  is  falling 
drearily  on  the  roof  and  windowpanes,  when  the  time 
hangs  heavily,  the  leaves  are  brought  out  from  their 
hiding  place  and  grouped  and  arranged  into  a  wreath 
or  bouquet.  They  recall  the  past ;  they  bring  thoughts 
of  another  autumn  season  that  is  "  to  be,"  and  the 
links  of  the  Before  and  After  stretch  themselves  over 


186  DRIFTINGS. 

a  vast  Eternity — all  because  of  these  little  fallen 
leaves.  Life  is  so  full  of  such  little  and  seemingly 
trifling  incidents  ;  and  yet  these  little  things  preach 
great  sermons ;  these  dainty  nothings  are  powerful 
reminders.  Rough  little  pebbles  sometimes  prove  to 
be  rare  jewels.  Do  not  despise  leaves  and  pebbles; 
you  know  not  what  lessons  they  may  teach.  You 
know  not  the  ways  and  means  of  their  creation,  nor 
why  God  gave  them  form.  And  if  the  leaves  are 
spotted  and  decayed,  remember  that  even  in  that 
God's  hand  is  to  be  found. 

THE    BUNCH   OF    LILACS. 

Once  a  little  child  gave  me  a  bunch  of  lilacs. 
The  pretty  delicate  blossoms  were  crushed  by  childish 
hands,  the  stems  were  broken,  and  the  flowers  drooped 
helplessly,  but  the  sweet  voice  said  in  lisping  tones  : 

"  Pitty  f 'owers  for  'ou  ;  me  brin'  'em  to  'ou  to  put 
in  V  hair." 

I  stooped  and  took  the  flowers;  then  raising  the 
little  one  in  my  arms  I  kissed  the  baby  lips  and 
hugged  the  childish  form.  And  though  four  long 
years  have  passed  since  I  saw  the  little  one,  and  the 
flowers  lie  shattered  from  their  stems  in  an  old  school 
book  which  is  seldom  opened  now,  I  can  never  forget 


DRIFTINGS.  187 

that  the  child  who  gave  them,  came  to  me  when  I  was 
tired  and  homesick — was  far  away  from  home  and 
friends ;  and  the  simple  gift,  the  babyish  words,  were 
more  to  me  than  the  stinted  sympathy  and  polite 
friendship  of  older  persons  could  have  been.  I  can 
never  forget  how  like  the  sound  of  sweet  music  the 
child's  voice  fell  on  my  ear.  And  though  I  had  never 
seen  the  child  before,  and  have  never  seen  it  since,  I 
love  it.  And  when  many  greater  events  of  my  life 
shall  have  been  forgotten,  the  memory  of  that  sweet 
face  and  baby  voice,  and  the  bunch  of  lilacs,  will  re 
main  as  a  pleasant  perfume  after  the  flowers  are 
faded. 

REST. 

How  we  speak  this  little  word — what  music  is 
condensed  within  this  one  syllable — REST.  What 
bright  dreams  of  happiness  dance  before  our  tired 
eyes,  as  we  think  of  the  rest  awaiting  us  when  we 
shall  have  accomplished  our  task.  No  rest  can  come 
without  labor,  for,  without  exertion,  we  feel  no  need 
of  it.  We  spend  the  day  in  physical  labor,  and  in 
the  evening  comes  rest — for  the  body  ;  but  for  the 
mind  no  perfect  rest  is  to  be  attained.  The  mighty 
machinery  of  our  brain  is  constantly  at  work — the 


188  DRIFTINGS. 

wheel  of  thought  never  ceases  its  grinding.  Long 
years  of  existence  pass  away  ;  childhood  merges  into 
youth,  youth  into  manhood,  manhood  into  age,  and 
age  almost  forgets  to  count  them,  as  they  glide  rapidly 
by,  and  still  the  brain  has  NEVER  rested.  There  would 
be  no  need  of  rest  for  the  mind  if  the  thoughts 
evolved  were  always  happy  scintillations ;  but  the 
clouds  more  frequently  dim  the  horizon  of  Reality, 
and  it  is  only  when  wandering  through  the  pictured 
halls  of  Imagination  that  we  can  see  the  sun  in  all 
its  glory  lighting  up  the  beautiful  scenery  created  by 
Fancy's  fairy  frostwork.  But  all  too  soon  grim  Reality 
seizes  upon  the  mind,  the  sunlight  vanishes,  and 
again  we  have  new  difficulties  to  contend  with ;  but, 
through  it  all,  we  have  the  promise  of  a  rest  beyond, 
to  cheer  and  comfort  us.  We  are  to  work  here,  for 
God's  glory ;  and  we  know  that  when  the  clouds  are 
darkest,  when  the  waves  beat  most  relentlessly,  we 
have  a  "Rock  that  is  higher  than  we"  under  whose 
shadow  we  can  find  rest — sweet  rest. 

A  loving  arm  is  always  extended  to  us,  and  a 
gentle  voice  says,  "  Come  unto  Me,  all  ye  that  labor, 
and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest ;"  and 
again,  "  Learn  of  Me,  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  in 
heart,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls."  How 


DRIFTINGS.  189 

considerate,  how  thoughtful,  in  the  Master,  thus  to 
propose  to  bear  our  burdens,  to  lighten  our  cares,  and 
when  we  are  tired,  to  give  us  rest ! 

Then  let  us  "  work  for  Him  while  it  is  day,  for 
the  night  cometh  when  no  man  can  work  ;"  a  time 
when  the  tired  hands  will  be  folded  across  the  lifeless, 
soulless  bosom  of  the  clay ;  when  the  hair  will  be 
smoothed  back  from  the  temples  that  have  ceased  to 
throb  with  pain,  and  all  will  be  at  peace.  What  a 
blessed  hope  we  have  of  rest  in  that  bright  home, 
where  there  is  "no  need  of  the  sun,  neither  of  the 
moon,  to  shine  in  it ;  for  the  glory  of  the  Lord  doth 
lighten  it."  And  in  those  glorious  mansions  which 
Jesus  has  gone  to  prepare,  there  is  room  for  all ;  and 
when  "  the  silver  chord  shall  be  loosed,  or  the  golden 
bowl  be  broken,  or  the  pitcher  be  broken  at  the  foun 
tain,  or  the  wheel  be  broken  at  the  cistern," — then 
comes  the  reward — a  Crown  of  Life,  studded  with 
stars ;  a  robe  of  Immortality ;  a  Home  with  the 
Father ;  a  meeting  with  loved  ones  who  have  gone 
before ;  and  finally,  rest, — sweet,  eternal  REST. 

LITTLE    INCIDENTS. 

It  is  certainly  true  that  little  incidents,  to  which 
we  attach  no  consequence,  are  often  the  hinges  upon 


190  DRIFTINGS. 

which  hang  the  most  important  events.  A  word,  an 
act,  an  impulse,  may  exert  an  influence  over  our 
whole  future ;  may  reach  down  through  the  dim  laby 
rinths  of  Time,  up  through  the  golden  gates  of 
Eternity,  to  the  judgment  bar,  even  to  the  heavenly 
jury.  We  go  on  doing  whatsoever  our  hands  find  to 
do,  little  dreaming  that  we  are  spellbound  by  a 
thoughtless  act  of  childhood. 

TREAD   OF    YEARS. 

When  we  are  happy  the  years  seem  to  fly ;  but 
when  sorrow  and  care  weigh  us  down,  and  we  are  of 
the  earth,  earthy,  each  day  has  a  meaning  of  too 
deep  import  to  be  forgotten,  and  leaves  a  scar  to  re 
mind  us  that  we  have  suffered.  When  scar  after  scar 
defaces  the  landscape  of  years ;  when  our  sky  is  over 
cast  with  clouds  instead  of  light ;  then  time  is  leaden- 
paced.  Youth  always  measures  time  by  itself — counts 
forward,  and  not  backward.  Add  to  the  years  of 
childhood,  darkness  and  gloom,  and  imagine  the  in 
terminable  waste  of  a  future  with  nothing  to  hope  for 
— the  life  stretching  before  the  child. 

ASHES   OF    ROSES. 

I  sit  here  on  the  river  banks  watching  the  clouds 
as  they  float  far  away  in  the  distance,  or  forming 


DRIFTINGS.  191 

themselves  into  strange  shapes,  are  reflected  in  the 
clear  waters  at  my  feet.  Far  off  yonder  looms  a  great 
stone  boulder,  grim,  and  grey,  and  cold.  Beyond  it 
rises  a  mountain  chain  that  seems  enveloped  in  a 
blue  mist,  such  as  we  have  often  seen  real  mountains 
wear.  Here  and  there,  light,  feathery  clouds  are  float 
ing,  growing  more  rugged,  more  grand.  But  silently 
a  change  is  being  wrought.  A  red  flush  appears  at 
the  edges  of  the  clouds,  then  spreads  farther  and 
grows  deeper  until  the  whole  sky  seems  in  a  flame. 
Then  slowly 

"Bright  daylight  closes. 
Leaving  where  light  doth  die 
Pale  hues  that  mingling  lie — 

Ashes  »f  roses."  %  . 

The  pearl  and  pink  tints  blend  and  grow  into  one 
broad,  rippling,  wave-like  sea  of  beauty.  The  day  is 
done,  and  what  remains?  Ashes  of  roses.  Yes,  the 
brightness,  the  glory  of  the  day  is  past,  but  behind 
the  stars  another  day  is  heaving  into  birth,  which  will 
perhaps  end  as  this  one  has  done,  leaving — ashes  of 
roses. 

Every  hope,  every  ambition,  every  dream  of  our 
life,  falls  short  of  its  promise,  and  all  along  our  path 
way  are  scattered — ashes  of  roses.  We  build  our 


192  DRIFTINGS. 

hopes  too  high  for  attainment  color  our  dreams  all 
too  bright  for  reality,  allow  our  thoughts  to  grasp  too 
much  for  our  weak  hold,  and  the  result  is — ashes  of 
roses.  And  eo  it  is  better  as  it  is  ;  better  that  we 
find  our  strength  is  not  infinite ;  better  to  learn  that 
God  is  God,  and  therefore  Strength  and  Wisdom  and 
Power,  that  we  may  feel  our  dependence  upon  Him ; 

"When  love's  warm  sun  is  set 

Love's  brightness  closes; 
Eyes  with  hot  tears  are  wet, 
In  hearts  there  lingers  yet — 
Ashes  of  roses." 

But  when  we  have  learned  all  this;  when  we  have 
held  the  flower  in  our  hands,  and  have  seen  it  wither 
and  fade;  when  sadly  the  brightness,  the  hopeful 
ness  of  youth  fades  out,  leaving  in  our  hearts  only 
the  memory  of  what  was — only  the  ashes  of  life's 
roses  ;  then  comes  the  reality  of  something  which 
cannot  decay ;  which  cannot  turn  to  ashes,  but  will 
always  be  fair  and  glorious.  Then  comes  God's  love 
and  care ;  a  day  which  holds  no  dead  hopes,  no 
broken  dreams ;  a  day  all  lovely  and  beautiful,  when 
we  can  close  our  eyes,  fold  our  hands,  and  pass  away 
to  that  better  home  where  we  will  be  no  more  mocked 
with  the — ashes  of  roses. 


DRIFTINGS.  193 

* 

GOD'S  ACRE. 

Saturday  evening  a  soft  mist  lay  over  land  and 
sea,  and  the  balm  of  earth's  beauty  touched  my  coun 
try-bred  heart.  I  could  not  stay  in  doors,  so  putting 
on  a  hat  and  arming  myself  with  a  sketch  book,  I 
went  off  for  a  ramble,  seeking  the  spot  freest  from 
noise  and  bustle  ;  for  the  stillness  of  a  summer's  day 
filled  the  air,  and  the  calm  of  romantic  speculation 
was  in  my  brain.  For  a  time  I  walked  on,  with  no 
special  point  in  view — simply  dreaming ;  but  after 
awhile  I  found  myself  in  "Potter's  Field."  Quiet? 
Yes,  perfect  quiet  here.  The  old  oaks  that  reach  up 
to  heaven,  were  mute.  All  around  lay  ranks  and  files 
of  the  dead.  In  the  farthest  corner,  of  the  ''field," 
are  the  graves  of  past  and  forgotten  generations — 
men  and  women  who  trod  for  a  brief  hour  the  stage 
of  life — men  and  women  whose  names,  as  their  bodies 
are  passed  away  and  forgotten.  These  graves  are 
walled  up  by  an  arched  brick  or  cement  covering,  but 
no  name,  no  date.  Dead ! — lost  to  earth  and  its 
interests,  with  nothing  to  tell  whether  they  were  men, 
women  or  children  passed  away.  It  is  pitiful.  The 
children  who  perhaps  owe  their  existence  to  these 
people  of  a  younger  time  in  Pensacola's  existence,  are 
left  in  ignorance  of  where  they  rest.  Grass  and  briers 


194  DRIFTINOS. 

• 

grow  in  tangled  luxuriance  here — weeds  and  brush 
hold  high  carnival  over  the  bodies  of  God's  children. 
Dead  !  Forgotten  !  Let  the  weeds  grow — the  briers 
spread — they  are  not  of  us. 

Heavens  !  how  sad  it  is  that  they  should  be  so 
neglected.  There  are  tender  little  children  lying  here 
— babes  who  were  loved  and  caressed  on  earth,  now 
covered  over  with  tangled  masses  of  weeds  and  briers; 
men  and  women  accustomed  to  the  luxuries  of 
earth  sleeping  neglected  and  forgotten.  Can  it  be 
that  men  know  this — do  they  think  so  lightly  of  the 
dead  ?  Mothers,  fathers,  friends  gone  away,  and  no 
loving  hand  left  near  to  keep  clean  the  graves  of  their 
dead.  Why  does  not  our  city  employ  a  sexton  to 
watch  over  God's  Acre,  and  preserve  from  neglect  the 
sleeping  dust  of  her  people — to  do  the  work  which 
friends  may  not  do  ?  Here  and  there  one  comes  upon 
a  pretty  clean  lot  where  loving  hearts  still  beat  for 
the  silent  sleepers  ;  but  there  are  hundreds  who  have 
fallen  asleep,  strangers  in  a  strange  land,  and  the 
briers  are  choking  them.  Is  this  Christian-like  ?  Is 
there  no  help  for  it  ?  The  burial  place  of  Pensacola, 
one  of  the  oldest  in  the  United  States,  is  a  link 
between  the  centuries  that  are  gone  and  the  present. 
The  people  who  have  gone  and  those  who  yet  live  are 


CATCHING    THE    SUNSHINE.  195 

as  one,  and  we  owe  the  Past  a  measure  of  respect. 
Let  us  make  of  this  neglected  field  a  God's  Acre, 
truly  ; — consecrated,  calm,  peaceful — such  as  shall 
not  be  a  reproach  to  us. 


CATCHING  THE  SUNSHINE. 

"  What  are  you  doing  my  little  one  ?"  asked  a 
young  mother  of  her  innocent  baby  of  seven  sum 
mers. 

"Catching  the  sunshine,  mamma.  See  how  it 
hides.  When  I  step  in  here  to  get  it,  it  is  gone,  and  I 
go  away  and  then  it  comes  back,  and  I  do  wish  I 
could  hold  it — everything  looks  so  pretty  in  the  sun 
shine.  You  know  those  zenias  that  grow  in  the 
garden  ?  Well,  yesterday  night  I  looked  at  them 
and  they  were  old  and  faded ;  but  this  morning  I 
went  to  see  them  and  they  were  real  pretty.  Don't 
you  guess  they  have  been  catching  the  sunshine  is 
the  reason  ?  And  yesterday  papa  said  my  hair  looked 
like  threads  of  gold  when  the  sun  shined  on  it — I 
reckon  it  was  catching  the  sunshine  too.  Everything 
looks  pretty  when  the  sun  shines  on  it." 

The  little  one  went  back  to  her  play,  quite  un- 


196  CATCHING    THE    SUNSHINE. 

conscious  of  the  impression  her  childish  words  had 
made.  The  mother  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand, 
and  looked  out  on  the  beautiful  earth.  Everything 
was  bathed  in  a  flood  of  golden  light,  but  away  over 
the  hills,  a  little  cloud,  "  not  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand,"  sailed  alone.  There  was  a  far-away  look  of 
sadness  in  her  eyes,  as  she  thought  of  her  little  one 
who  had  scarcely  counted  her  "  seven  times  one,"  and 
to  whom  life  seemed  but  a  long  path  of  happiness 
and  sunshine.  She  thought  of  the  years  to  come,  of 
the  trials  in  store  for  her  darling,  and  her  heart  was 
sad,  and  in  her  sadness,  she  forgot  to  catch  the  sun 
shine  of  the  present  and  let  the  future  take  care 

of  itself. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Again  the  mother  sat  in  the  same  room.  The 
years  had  dealt  heavily  with  her — the  loved  form  of 
him  whose  arm  had  been  her  stay  through  life  was 
missing.  He  had  gone  to  the  land  where  "  the  sun 
shine  ever  lingers,"  and  her  baby  alone  remained  with 
her — a  baby  no  longer,  but  a  lovely  young  girl  whose 
years  numbered  little  more  than  "seven  times  two." 
She  stood  beside  her  bereaved  parent,  and  tried  to 
point  out  the  roses  that  yet  bloomed  for  her  along 
life's  rugged  steeps.  She  saw  the  sunshine  still  deck- 


CATCHING    THE    SUNSHINE.  197 

ing  "hill  and  vale,  and  stream,"  and  would  not 
repine,  but  as  in  her  infant  days  continued  to  "  catch 
the  sunshine." 

Years  rolled  on — for  the  cycles  of  time  will  not 
stop,  and  changes  are  ever  going  on  around  us — and 
we  see  no  longer  the  innocent  child,  or  fair  young 
maiden,  but  instead,  a  woman  advanced  in  years. 
Have  the  years  made  her  bitter  and  misanthropic  ? 
Let  us  see. 

Her  girlhood  days  passed  happily,  womanhood 
came,  and  long  ago  she  gave  her  heart  into  the  kindly 
care  of  her  choice.  Little  faces  sprang  up  around 
her,  sunny  heads  nestled  on  her  loving  breast,  child 
ish  voices  called  her  by  the  sweet  name  of  "  Mother,'' 
and  she  loved  them  better  than  her  own  life.  She 
pointed  them  to  the  Father's  Home,  told  them  of  the 
angels  clothed  in  beauty,  of  the  Shepherd's  tender 
care  for  the  little  ones,  and  they  loved  the  heavenly 
home  more  than  the  earthly  one,  and  they  unfolded 
their  little  wings  and  went  up  higher,  where  they 
would  ever  retain  the  sunshine.  For  a  time  the 
mother's  heart  rebelled  ;  but  at  length  she  loved  to 
think  of  her  darlings  as  her  angels,  and  she  counted 
the  links  in  the  golden  chain  that  was  stretched  down 
from  Heaven  to  draw  her  upward.  After  awhile  the 


198  LIFE'S  MISERERE. 

last  link  was  added,  and  her  noble  and  loving  hus 
band  stepped  beyond,  to  await  with  his  children  for 
the  coming  of  the  wife  and  mother. 

Did  she  grow  discouraged  ?  No.  Her  belief  in 
the  Father's  wisdom  was  unshaken,  her  faith  simple 
and  childlike;  and  by  her  deeds  she  was  adding  jewels 
to  the  crown  that  was  awaiting  her  in  the  Hereafter. 
By  and  by,  after  a  long  day  spent  on  earth,  catching 
the  sunshine  of  God's  love,  she  gently  folded  her 
hands  over  her  peaceful  breast,  and  said,  while  a 
heavenly  smile  lit  up  her  face,  "  Mother,  Husband, 
Children,  I  too  am  coming  up  there  to  'catch  the  sun 
shine.'  " 


LIFE'S  MISERERE. 

Sometimes,  we  scarcely  know  why,  the  days  are 
sorrowful,  dreamy,  and  full  of  vague  forebodings. 
Even  the  sunlight  seems  less  joyous,  there  are  prom 
ises  of  rain  in  the  air>  and  every  sound  that  floats 
across  the  other  bears  a  melancholy  tone.  0  how 
wearisome  !  We  go  out  on  the  highways,  away  into 
the  woods, — deep  into  Nature's  heart ;  but  the  wind's 
whisper  among  the  leaves,  and  the  wild  bird-notes, 
float  out  on  the  air  with  the  same  mournful  cadence. 


LIFE'S  MISERERE.  199 

The  little  stream  glides  along  noiselessly  for  a  time, 
then  rushes  impetuously  along  the  banks,  over  roots 
and  rocks,  as  if  to  get  beyond  its  sluggish  bed — this 
still  despair.  We  look  up  into  the  foilage  above,  and 
vague,  restless  shadows  seem  flitting  there — shadows 
of  things  beyond  our  ken  ;  we  look  through  the  pines 
into  the  distance,  and  the  shadows  multiply.  The 
crows  flying  overhead  sing  sadly,  despairingly ;  the 
bell's  tinkle  in  the  distance  sounds  like  a  refrain  from 
sad  music  ;  the  woodman's  axe  echoes  dreamily  along 
the  river  side.  We  look  over  the  glittering  stream  of 
waters,  and  again  we  see  the  "  shadow  of  some  pain." 
We  look  up  at  the  sky.  and  the  dreamy  azure,  dotted 
here  and  there  with  deeper  blue  and  snowy  white, 
seems  to  concentrate  the  full  sadness  of  nature  in 
itself;  and  we  throw  ourselves  on  the  ground  and 
give  vent  to  our  feelings. 

The  days  of  childhood  appear  to  our  vision,  and 
we  see  the  old  schoolhouse,  and  the  great  poplars  and 
sycamores,  beneath  which  we  played  such  rare  games 
of  "base"  and  uwolf  over  the  snow  ;"  we  hear  the 
familiar  voices  of  our  schoolmates  calling  out  clearly, 
remember  our  childish  friendships  and  quarrels,  nor 
do  we  forget  the  hard  lessons  in  multiplication  and 
division,  and  the  terrible  puzzles  in  parsing ;  but  not- 


200  LIFE'S  MISERERE. 

withstanding  these  blemishes  in  the  restrospect,  we 
feel  what  happy,  happy  days  they  were,  and  would 
that  we  could  live  them  over. 

Then  we  recall  the  time  when  we  were  "big,"  and 
bade  farewell  to  the  old  log  schoolhouse  and  went 
away  to  college.  0  those,  too,  were  happy  days — 
days  of  high  hopes,  of  brave  wishes  and  great  ambi 
tions — days  when  all  the  world  was  ours,  and  we  had 
but  to  say,  "I  will."  Yes,  those  were  happy  days  ! 
I  see  the  old  college  now,  as  it  stands  on  the  hill  with 
its  miles  and  miles  of  beautiful  trees,  its  hills  and 
valleys  lying  around  it  ;  see  the  grand  old  maple,  the 
monarch  of  all  the  trees  in  the  grounds ;  yes,  see  it  in 
its  September  glory,  with  its  gorgeous  color  of  yellow, 
and  crimson,  and  brown,  and  pupils  scattered  here 
and  there  in  groups;  hear  the  sound  of  the  croquet 
balls  and  mallets,  and  above  all,  I  see  the  dear  old 
principal  standing  on  the  upper  step  of  the  portico 
looking  at  "  his  children."  Thus  we  recall  the  scenes 
of  our  youth  and  live  in  them  again,  but  in  spite  of 
us  the  retrospect  is  sad.  The  thought  that  the  golden 
hours  have  fled,  and  left  no  mark  ;  the  thought  that  it 
has  been  in  our  power  to  live  nobler  lives  than  we 
have  done,  comes  to  us  with  a  strange  rebuke,  for  we 
are  conscious  of  having  wasted  one  part  of  life's  grand 


LIFE'S  MISERERE.  201 

possibilities.  And  yet,  these  vain  regrets,  these  long 
ings  after  the  hopelessly  lost,  lend  a  charm  and  a 
value  to  the  past.  The  joys  of  the  past  increase,  the 
sorrows  decrease,  by  retrospection.  We  ever  stand  on 
the  shores  of  Uncertainty,  yet  have  faith  in  the  ships 
which  Time  will  wreck  all  along  the  sea  of  life. 

The  lives  we  lead  are  full  of  sadness,  but  all  sad 
ness  has  a  refrain  of  hope — all  sorrow  is  followed  by 
joy.  Thank  God  that  He  sometimes  sends  us  sorrow, 
for  by  it  we  measure  our  blessings.  It  is  one  of  His 
agents.  There  is  no  life  but  has  had  days  of  dark 
ness,  no  day  but  has  been  overshadowed  by  some  faint 
regret ;  but  in  these  shadows,  if  we  look,  we  may  see 
God.  Where  the  shadows  are,  there  God  is,  and  into 
all  hearts  he  can  send  the  sweet  perfume  of  love  and 
peace. 

I  once  knew  a  woman  whose  whole  life  was  a 
shadow.  Just  in  the  dawn  of  womanhood,  when 
life,  to  most  of  us,  is  illumined  by  bright  hopes  and 
sweeter  dreams,  she,  the  fairest  bud  in  "  a  rose-bud 
garden  of  girls,"  was  stricken  with  a  night  of  years — 
a  night  into  which  no  hope  of  daylight  could  come. 
Many  times  I  met  this  beautiful  saint,  and  though  she 
could  not  see  me,  I  felt  that  her  pure  soul  could  read 
my  very  thoughts.  Did  she  ever  complain  ?  Did  she 


202  LIFE'S  MISERERE. 

waste  her  time  in  lamenting  her  blindness — in  pining 
for  the  sight  of  beautiful  things?  Never.  Her  lips 
dropped  pearls — her  life  was  a  living  sermon  ;  and  if 
ever  a  complaint  passed  her  lips,  only  God  and  the 
angels  heard  it.  Many  times  I  have  heard  her  say, 
as  if  to  encourage  others,  and  all  unmindful  that  she 
was  sorest  afflicted  : 

"  What  tho'  the  road  be  rugged, 

And  the  sky  be  seldom  bright, 
Since  every  footstep  leads  us 
To  the  lovely  Land  of  Light." 

When  we  compare  our  own  sorrows  with  the 
trials  and  sufferings  of  others,  it  seems  so  weak  and 
selfish  to  complain,  or  even  let  sad  feelings  creep  into 
our  hearts  for  there  are  many  sunbeams,  and  they 
yield. infinitely  better  than  clouds.  Then 

"Back,  back,  ()  tears!     We  have  no  cause  to  mourn — 
Sighs  break  in  songs  upon  the  other  shore, 
And  grief  is  lost  in  gladness  evermore." 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  203 


MAUD  ARNOLD. 

CHAPTER    I. 

I  cannot  tell  how  I  found  out  all  these  items 
in  my  heroine's  life.  Life  is  too  short  for  long  ex 
planation,  but  what  I  write  is  true.  Maud  Arnold  is  as 
real  a  character  as  I  am — as  I  who  write  these  things. 
I  have  known  her  since  her  childhood ;  we  have 
grown  up  together.  We  have  had  our  quarrels  and 
our  makings  up,  as  others  have  since  the  world  began. 
To  me  she  has  ever  been  the  embodiment  of  all  that 
is  lovable.  Faulty  and  fallible  as  she  is,  she  is  yet 
a  heroine.  I  have  a  little  red  morrocco  book  in  my 
keeping,  in  which  she  tells  her  childish  troubles,  and 
describes,  with  her  own  honest  simplicity,  her  little 
voyage  over  the  sea  of  childhood.  She  may  tell  you 
all  this,  for  I  know  I  can  never  equal  her;  and  you 
may  learn  from  her  something  of  our  first  meeting — 
of  our  growth  in  mind  and  heart.  You  may  read 
these  pages,  and  you  will  hold  them  sacred — as  I  do  ; 
you  will  see  how  troublous  was  the  dawn,  and  under 
stand  how  she  became  a  woman  even  before  she  was 

a  child. 

***** 


MAUD   ARNOLD. 

SEPTEMBER  15,  18-. — Well,  I  am  Maud,  and  that 
isn't  saying  much,  either,  for  I  haven't  anything  to 
boast  of  in  saying  it.  My  father  is  my  hero,  and  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  about  him.  I  think  you  will  like 
him — 1  do.  I  guess  you  have  read  John  Halifax. 
Well,  father  is  a  grander,  nobler  man  than  he,  and 
that  is  saying  a  great  deal,  for  John  Halifax  is  one  of 
my  ideals  of  manliness.  Ages  ago  my  father  was  a 
rich  man.  My  grandfather  was  an  English  noble 
man's  youngest  son  ;  he  came  to  the  IS'ew  World  to 
find  the  justice  and  wealth  denied  him  in  the  Old. 
When  he  reached  here — a  young  lawyer  struggling  for 
the  position  for  which  his  education  and  acquirements 
fitted  him;  he  had  no  friends,  no  wealth — nothing  but 
his  own  strong  will  and  high  aims.  But  fortune 
favored  him.  He  made  friends — and  money,  too. 
After  awhile  he  married  a  true,  sweet  woman,  who 
loved  him  for  himself.  I  never  knew  my  grandfather 
— he  died  when  I  was  a  little  cross  baby  in  long 
dresses ;  but  I  knew  my  grandmother,  and  I  do  not 
wonder  that  my  father  is  the  noblest  man  in  the 
world,  his  mother  was  so  good,  so  grand. 

When  my  father  was  sixteen,  he  had  to  leave 
college  on  account  of  ill  health — that  is  why  he  never 
completed  his  education.  This  was  hard  to  bear,  for 
he  was  ambitious,  and  wanted  to  become  a  great  law 
yer  like  grandfather,  but  fate  was  against  him,  and  he 
had  to  give  up.  But  he  was  a  Christian  ;  and  he 
went  on  doing  the  duties  he  had  strength  to  do.  No  ; 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  205 

I  guess  I  am  giving  you  a  somewhat  wrong  idea  of 
father's  goodness,  for  perhaps  you  will  imagine  that 
he  was  a  quiet,  patient  man,  who  did  good  because  it 
was  natural.  I  reckon  that  is  a  beautiful  kind  of 
goodness  ;  but  father's  goodness  is  better.  He  is  a 
quick,  impulsive,  ardent  man,  and  has  many  tempta 
tions,  many  difficulties  to  combat  against.  I  know 
this,  for  I  am  like  him  in  disposition,  though  not  in 
character.  I  have  all  these  trials  and  temptations ; 
and  father  talks  to  me  about  them  and  shows  me  the 
best  ways  to  act ;  though  I  don't  half  the  time  take 
his  advice ;  for  I  am  headstrong.  I  like  to  do  my 
own  way — so  does  father;  but  he  is  generous,  and  con 
siders  other  people's  comfort  and  happiness.  I  con 
sult  my  own  pleasure.  Father  is  a  Christian,  I  am  a 
heathen.  I  keep  a  picture  of  ugly  old  Budda  in  my 
room  all  the  time,  though  of  course  I  don't  worship  it 
— I  am  not  superstitious  enough  for  that ;  but  I  like 
to  imagine  him  as  the  heathens  did ;  I  like  to  think 
of  the  heathen  worship  anyway.  No  !  I  am  not  a  bit 
of  a  Christian,  and  I  never  read  my  Bible.  I  read 
the  Koran,  though, — and  the  Talmud.  But  I  do  that 
because  all  smart  people  do — and  I  am  going  to  'be 
very  smart  when  I  grow  up.  I  am  right  smart  now  ! 
I  have  read  a  great  deal  of  history.  I  have  read 
Humboldt's  Cosmos,  in  German,  Schiller  and  Goethe. 
I  like  the  languages,  and  learn  them  very  fast.  My 
mother  is  the  daugther  of  a  German  Professor,  and  I 
have  known  German  since  I  was  a  little  thing.  I 


206  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

have  a  good  knowledge  of  French,  too.  You  see  I  am 
somewhat  of  a  book-worm — I  am  only  eleven  now, 
and  I  am  always  going  to  study  hard.  I  do  not  know 
many  people — have  never  been  from  home  much  yet. 
And  I  have  no  one  to  talk  to  when  father  is  away,  for 
my  mother  has  so  many  other  children  that  she  hasn't 
much  time  to  talk  to  me;  and  then  I  believe  she  loves 
her  boys  best  anyway.  I  am  the  oldest,  and  have 
four,  no,  five  brothers.  But  father  loves  me,  and  0, 
how  I  love  him  !  I  wish  you  knew  father.  When  I 
grow  up  and  become  a  great  writer,  I  am  going  to 
write  a  history  of  his  life.  I  know  you  would  like 
him  if  you  knew  him — everybody  does 

Before  I  was  born  my  father  had  lost  all  his 
property  and  was  a  poor  man.  I  was  born  in  St. 
Louis  when  he  was  on  his  way  to  California,  where  he 
was  going  to  see  if  he  couldn't  get  rich  again.  We 
were  awful  poor  in  those  days.  I  have  heard  mother 
say  we  were  as  poor  as  church  mice.  We  lived  in  a 
little  hut  down  by  the  river,  and  didn't  even  have 
enough  to  eat.  St.  Louis  wasn't  as  large  eleven  years 
ago  as  it  is  now — you  know  it  isn't  an  old  city.  My 
father  caught  fish  for  us  when  we  had  nothing  else  to 
eat — though  I  don't  guess  I  ate  much,  for  I  was  only 
two  months  old  when  we  left  there.  My  father  had 
quarreled  with  his  brother  who  was  older  than  him 
self  and  was  his  guardian.  He  was  always  a  de 
termined  kind  of  man.  and  wouldn't  do  as  his  brother 
wished  ;  but  went  off  and  married.  That  made  my 


MAUD   ARNOLD.  207 

uncle  mad,  and  he  wouldn't  help  father  any.  As 
father  was  under  age,  he  couldn't  do  anything  with 
his  property.  I  don't  understand  how  it  was  ;  but  I 
know  that  when  my  father  was  of  age,  the  property 
had  been  so  managed  that  he  couldn't  get  anything. 
I  don't  think  there  was  anything  to  get,  for  it  had  all 
been  "sunk" — I  think  that's  what  they  called  it. 
Well,  when  father  found  that  he  had  been  defrauded, 
he  just  did  the  best  he  could  for  his  two  sisters,  and 
then  went  away  from  Kentcky.  When  he  got  to  St. 
Louis,  he  had  no  money.  He  could  find  work  enough, 
for  the  city  was  growing,  but  he  was  always  a  delicate 
man,  and  he  couldn't  do  much  without  its  almost 
killing  him.  And  the  worst  of  all,  I  was  a  baby. 
Now  if  I  had  been  big  enough,  I  could  have  made 
money  enough  for  us,  but  I  was  not  big,  you  see, — 
and  that's  the  reason  we  had  all  that  trouble!  I  think 
there  is  where  the  mistake  was  made — don't  you  ? 
Father  says  he  has  made  a  great  many  mistakes  ; 
but  everybody  has — I  know  I  have.  I  have  heard  tell 
about  all  this  so  much,  that  I  sometimes  think  may 
be  I  remember  it.  One  day  father  went  all  over  the 
city  trying  to  find  something  to  do ;  and  now  it  was 
growing  dark,  and  he  had  found  nothing.  He  was 
standing  on  the  river  bank  away  from  the  noise  of  the 
city  ;  and  was  wondering  if  it  would  be  very  wicked, 
if  he  should  drown  himself.  He  was  thinking  that 
he  was  no  use  to  mother  and  me  ;  and  if  he  were 
dead,  she  would  go  back  to  her  father,  and  support 


208  MAUD    ARNOLD. 

herself  by  teaching  music.  So  he  sat  down  and  wrote 
her  a  note  telling  her  all  about  it  and  asking  her  for 
giveness.  (I  have  read  it  myself,  for  mother  has 
always  kept  it.)  Then  he  kneeled  down  and  prayed 
to  God  to  take  care  of  us.  When  he  arose  he  didn't 
feel  like  he  wished  to  die  ;  and  stepping  back  a  little, 
his  foot  struck  against  something  hard,  and  stooping 
down,  he  picked  it  up  and  found  it  to  be  a  five  dollar 
gold  piece.  He  returned  to  the  busy  city  ;  and  when 
he  came  home,  he  brought  some  of  the  comforts  of 
life. 

It  seems  strange  to  me  even  now,  for  I  have 
never  seen  any  nice  people  who  were  as  poor  as  we 
were.  All  the  poor  people  I  have  ever  known,  were 
rough,  uneducated  people  ;  but  father  says  there  are 
a  great  many  refined  people  whom  adversity  has 
brought  as  low  as  we  were.  I  know  that  my  father  is 
not  rough,  lazy  or  ignorant,  (and  I  guess  other  people 
must  be  the  same  way,)  and  his  misfortunes  have 
been  unavoidable. 

J.  believe  I  was  going  to  tell  about  our  going  to 
California — wasn't  I  ?  Well,  after  father  found  the 
money,  he  became  more  hopeful,  and  went  to  work 
with  renewed  earnestness  to  find  such  employment  as 
his  strength  would  permit  him  to  do.  He  says  he 
thinkp  God  sent  him  help  and  friends  at  this  time; 
for  the  next  day  he  met  a  man  who  had  large  mining 
interests  in  California  which  he  could  not  go  out  to 
attend  to  himself;  and  seeming  to  take  a  fancy  to 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  209 

• 

father,  employed  him.  In  a  little  while  we  were  in 
California.  As  he  wished  mother  and  me  to  be  with 
him,  he  took  us  to  the  mining  district. 

The  first  that  I  remember  at  all  in  my  short  life 
is  about  the  miners,  and  how  they  loved  me  and 
would  beg  mamma  to  let  me  come  to  their  camps  ; 
and  I  think  it  was  so  nice  there — for  they  always  did 
whatever  I  wanted  them  to !  Mamma  was  so  kind  to 
them  that  they  loved  her  like  the  poor  people  loved 
Romola. 

Father  used  to  say  that  I  was  better  than  a 
missionary  to  them,  for  they  never  drank  or  used  bad 
language  when  I  was  about.  I  used  to  go  to  the 
camps  every  day.  When  I  was  six  years  old  I  used 
sometimes  to  run  off  from  mamma  and  go  there,  for 
she  had  two  other  babies  then,  and  I  didn't  like  to 
rock  the  cradle  and  play  with  them  all  the  time.  But 
whenever  I  did  this  some  of  "my  boys," — as  they 
taught  me  to  call  them,  when  I  first  learned  to  talk — 
would  take  me  in  their  arms  and  carry  me  home  ;  for, 
much  as  they  loved  me,  they  wouldn't  let  me  stay 
with  them  without  my  mother's  consent,  and  they 
would  always  ask  if  "she"  said  so.  When  I  learned  to 
read  I  used  to  go  and  read  the  Bible  to  them  of  eve 
nings  ;  and  they  would  sit  in  a  circle  around  me  with 
their  hats  off  listening  to  the  words  of  life;  and  when 
it  was  time  for  me  to  go,  two  of  them  would  take  me 
home.  I  think  it  was  nicer  there  than  anywhere  else 
in  the  world,  and  I  wish  we  could  have  stayed  there 


210  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

always  ;  but  father's  business  called  him  to  the  city, 
and  we  came  with  him.  Some  of  "my  boys"  cried 
when  I  came  away,  and  I  cried  too.  I  was  eight  years 
old  then,  but  I  didn't  know  any  one  except  the  miners 
and  my  parents.  I  know  others  now,  for  it  has  been 
three  years,  and  I  am  better  satisfied ;  still,  I  would 
like  to  go  back,  for  "  my  boys "  loved  me,  and  the 
people  here  do  not ;  and  I  would  rather  be  loved  than 
anything  else  in  the  world — [  think  it  makes  people 
the  happiest.  When  I  am  grown  up  I  intend  to  go 
where  everybody  will  love  me — I  mean  to  be  smart 
too !  And  I  guess  may  be  I'd  better  quit  being  a 
heathen,  for  they  might  not  love  me  if  I'm  a  heathen; 
so  I'm  going  to  commence  reading  my  Bible  again.  I 
guess  I  can  be  smart  and  read  my  Bible  too — father 
reads  his,  and  he  is  smart. 

SEPTEMBER  18. — This  is  not  a  book  for  anybody 
to  read  but  myself.  The  way  I  came  to  think  of 
writing  it,  is  this  :  I  saw  an  old  woman  once  who 
said  she  had  outlived  "the  memory  of  her  youth" — 
and  it  made  me  feel  sad  to  think  of  one's  forgetting 
the  past ;  and  I  thought  that  may  be  I  might  live  a 
long  time  and  might  forget ;  and  so  I  am  going  to 
write  it  all  down,  and  when  I  am  old  I  can  read 
it,  arid  then — may  be  sometimes  I'll  have  children  of 
my  own  who  will  want  to  read  it. 

I  started  to  school  yesterday,  and  as  I  had  never 
been  before,  it  all  seemed  so  strange.  There  were  a 
great  many  girls  there — more  than  I  ever  saw  to- 


MAUD   ARNOLD.  211 

gether  before.  I've  never  seen  many  girls,  for  since 
we  came  here  mamma  has  not  let  me  go  out ;  and  it 
made  me  feel  strange  when  I  went  into  that  great 
room — the  girls  stared  at  me  so.  I  know  if  I  had 
been  in  their  places  I  should  have  not  done  so.  Most 
of  them  were  dressed  finer  than  I,  but  I  didn't  think 
that  made  any  difference  before.  Mamma  is  as  kind 
and  polite  to  persons  who  dress  plainly  as  to  those 
who  dress  ever  so  nicely.  It  made  me  feel  ashamed 
for  those  girls  to  see  that  they  noticed  my  cotton  dress 
and  thick  shoes.  It  made  me  feel  like  I  never  wanted 
to  know  anybody  but  "  my  boys."  It  made  me  angry 
that  a  girl  should  do  so.  I  thought  all  girls  were  good 
and  sweet — I  thought  they  would  all  be  better  than  I. 
O,  it  made  me  sorry,  so  sorry — I  wish  I  was  back 
at  the  old  camps — O,  I  wish  I  was  there  where  they 
love  me  ! 

SEPTEMBER  20. — I  have  been  at  school  three  days 
now  ;  and  in  my  studies,  I  am  ahead  of  every  girl  of 
my  age  in  school — away  ahead  of  them,  and  I  am  so 
glad  !  The  teachers  are  all  good,  and  I  love  them  ; 
and  some  of  the  girls  I  like  very  much  now,  but  none 
do  I  love  so  dearly  as  I  used  to  think  I  should.  But 
I  don't  care  so  much  now  as  I  am  not  so  much  of  a 
stranger,  and  they  are  all  kinder  than  I  at  first 
thought — perhaps  it  was  my  own  fault  that  they 
seemed  hatefal.  Every  girl  in  school  has  a  special 
friend  but  me.  It  isn't  that  they  are  not  so  good  as  I 
am — some  are  a  great  deal  better  ;  but  I  don't  love 


212  MAUD    ARNOLD. 

them  very  dearly — I  wonder  why  ?  May  be  I  am 
hateful  in  my  ways — anyway,  I  am  not  like  them ;  I 
i^ish  I  was,  or,  at  least,  a  little  more  like  them  than  I 
am.  I  think  it  would  be  so  nice  to  have  a  girl  friend 
of  my  own,  my  very  own — who  could  look  up  into  the 
sky  as  I  do,  and  feel  in  sympathy  with  my  thoughts. 
I  don't  think  I  am  smart  enough  yet  to  have  very 
wise  thoughts,  but  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  would  fly 
to  pieces  if  I  couldn't  find  some  one  who  would  listen 
to  me.  I  guess  the  other  girls  feel  that  way  too,  but 
they  have  some  one  to  talk  to — some  one  who  is  not 
too  "  grown  up  " — some  one  who  doesn't  look  up  with 
such  surprise  and  wonder  at  them  when  they  say. 
things.  Papa  understands  me,  but  he  is  too  "  grown 
up ;"  and  so  there  is  no  one  for  me  to  talk  to  and  love 
as  the  other  girls  do — it's  too  sad,  too  sad  ! 

FEBRUARY  10. — It  has  been  a  long  time  since  I 
wrote  anything  here — almost  five  months.  I  have 
been  advanced  in  my  classes  and  am  getting  along 
ever  so  well.  But  the  best  of  all  is  this  :  one  day 
about  two  months  ago,  a  new  pupil  came  to  school — a 
girl  different  from  any  one  I  ever  saw.  She  is  not 
pretty — not  even  as  pretty  as  I  am !  The  girls  all 
commented  on  her  when  she  came,  and  I  know  what 
they  think.  They  say  she  is  ugly,  and  it  may  be 
true;  but  I  think  her  prettier  than  anybody  I  ever 
saw,  but  it  is  not  outside  beauty  ;  it  is  deep  down 
where  but  few  see  it — I  see  it.  She  understands  me 
and  I  love  her,  and  now  I  am  happy.  She  lives  close 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  213 

to  us — her  name  is  Katharine  Carlile.  She  is  four 
years  older  than  I,  but  I  feel  like  we  were  the  same 
age.  We  study  and  read  and  talk — O,  how  we  do  talk! 
She  is  a  Christian  and  tells  me  how  she  feels,  and  it 
only  shows  me  how  wicked  I  am  ;  I  am  disobedient  to 
mamma,  and  unkind  to  my  brothers — am  naturally 
hateful.  Kathie  is  not  quite  as  well  advanced  in  her 
studies  as  I,  but  she  is  a  great  deal  smarter  in  other 
things.  She  sings  beautifully — it  seems  to  me  that 
the  angels  do  not  make  sweeter  music.  If  her  father 
is  ever  able,  he  will  send  her  to  Italy  to  have  her 
voice  cultivated.  Mr.  Carlile  has  only  two  children. 
His  son,  Paul,  is  away,  and  I  have  not  seen  him. 
Kathie  has  his  picture,  taken  ten  years  ago.  I  don't 
think  it  pretty,  but  she  says  he  is  beautiful  now  !  and 
0,  so  smart !  I'll  be  sorry  when  he  comes  home,  for 
then  I'll  have  to  give  up  Kathie — she  will  not  be  all 
my  very  own  any  longer.  Now  this  is  wicked  of  me. 
Kathie  wouldn't  say  such  things  ;  she  is  always 
generous ;  but  oh,  I  can't  give  her  up  to  Paul ;  but 
then  he  will  not  be  home  for  four  years,  and  I  needn't 
begin  to  feel  bad  about  it  yet ! 

Kathie  and  I  study  very  hard.  I  am  going  to  be 
a  teacher.  I  would  like  to  write  books ;  I  love  to  write 
better  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  but  I  must  do 
something  to  make  a  living,  and  I  can't  ever  write 
well  enough  to  make  it  in  that  way.  Nobody  but 
Kathie  knows  that  I  ever  write  anything — I  wouldn't 
let  any  one  else  know  ;  and  she  asks  me  for  every 


214  MAUD    ARNOLD. 

piece  of  paper  I  scribble  on.  But  she  is  a  genius — 
she  writes  beautifully,  sings  divinely,  paints  ex 
quisitely — does  everything  well.  In  her  presence  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  in  a  different  world.  Mamma  says 
her  society  is  ennobling  and  elevating. 

CHAPTER  II. 

OCTOBER  18. — To-day  I  am  fifteen  years  old — 
fifteen,  a  woman.  0,  how  strange  it  seems  that  I  am 
almost  grown  up.  I  am  glad,  though,  for  there  is  so 
much  for  me  to  do  in  the  world — so  much  that  I 
ought  to  do.  Papa  is  breaking  down,  and  mamma  is 
getting  every  day  more  dependent  on  me.  I  have  to 
plan  and  think,  and  think  and  plan  each  day,  for 
something  to  cheer  papa  up.  It  almost  breaks  my 
heart  to  see  him  so  worn  and  weary  ;  so  tired  of 
everything.  I  think  he  cannot  live  long,  and  if  he 
should  die,  then,  God  help  me ! 

OCTOBER  20. — Such  a  beautiful  thing  has  hap 
pened  to-day !  God  sent  me  a  gift — one  I  have  prayed 
for  all  my  life ;  a  beautiful  little  sister — a  perfect 
little  angel  who  came  down,  I  verily  believe,  on  wings 
and  dropped  them  at  the  door,  and  the  other  angels 
have  carried  them  back  to  keep  for  her.  It  does  not 
seem  true  that  I  should  really  have  a  sister — a  beauti 
ful  little  baby  sister !  And  O,  I  love  her  so  !  And  I 
am  to  be  her  god-mamma — think  of  it !  0  you  dear, 
dumb  old  book,  why  can't  you  laugh  with  me — I  am 
so  glad  ? 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  215 

OCTOBER  22. — Mamma  may  die,  they  say — it  is 
terrible  !  Mamma  dead  !  I  can't  think  of  it !  And 
then  I  have  been  wicked  and  hateful  to  her  all  my 
life.  If  she  dies  I  will  feel  like  a  murderer,  for  I  have 
many,  many  times  been  angry  and  hateful  to  her.  O 
God  !  spare  her  and  I  will  be  better  to  her  ! 

OCTOBER  28. — She  is  better — she  will  live  ;  and  I 
am  almost  wild,  I  am  so  happy  !  But  she  can't  sit  up 
for  ever  so  short  a  time,  and  1  am  to  be  baby's  nurse 
— I  am  to  wash  and  dress  the  dear  beautiful  little 
angel  every  day,  and  I  do  so  love  it !  You  should 
only  see  her  beautiful  eyes — so  big,  so  brown,  so  soft 
— they  seem  so  full  of  wonder  at  everything  ;  I  think 
she  is  comparing  this  home  with  the  one  she  left  in 
Heaven.  She  is  as  good  as  can  be,  and  never  cries 
much  ;  and  when  I  put  her  in  the  bath,  she  is  too 
beautiful  for  anything  !  I  believe  I'd  kiss  her  to  death 
if  they'd  let  me  !  Kathie  comes  over  every  morning 
to  see  her  take  her  bath.  She  says  baby  is  the  sweet 
est  and  most  beautiful  creature  on  earth.  She  and  I 
are  even  now — she  has  Paul  and  I  have  baby.  Every 
body  wants  to  name  her  Paula ;  and  for  Kathie's  sake 
I  am  willing.  Mr.  Paul  is  at  home  now — came  while 
mamma  was  so  ill.  I  haven't  seen  him  yet,  but  he  is 
coming  with  Kathie  this  evening.  I  hope  I  will  like 
him.  Baby  is  asleep  now  and  I  think  I  will  run  out 
in  the  woods  a  little  while.  I  am  so  tired  and  per 
haps  my  head  won't  ache.  *  *  *  It  is  evening 
now  and  Kathie  and  her  brother  have  been  here. 


216  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

Mr.  Paul  is  a  handsome  man,  I  think  ;  but  he  is 
awfully  "grown  up"  and  wise,  and — I  don't  like  him. 
He  is  going  away  to-morrow  night.  I  think  he  ought 
to  love  Kathie  very  much,  for  she  loves  him  better 
than  anybody ;  but  I  don't  believe  he  does,  and  if  I 
knew  he  didn't  I'd  hate  him, — everybody  ought  to 
love  her,  she  is  so  sweet,  so  good.  I  don't  believe  he 
loves  anybody — he  looks  so  cold  and  proud  ;  but  he 
smiled  beautifully  at  baby,  and  maybe  he  is  kind. 

OCTOBER  18. — October  again,  the  month  of  my 
hardest  trials  and  greatest  sufferings — the  month  of 
ill  omen  to  me.  Sorrow,  grief,  despair  seem  to 
crown  this  one  month.  There  is  a  melancholy  cadence 
in  every  sound — a  sombre  tint  in  every  ripening  leaf. 
Two  years  have  come  and  gone  since  I  wrote  a  line 
here,  two  busy  years  rounded  up  and  running  over 
with  work.  I  have  had  no  time  to  think  of  this  com 
panion  of  my  childish  solitude.  But  to-night  a  vague 
unrest — an  unutterable  sense  of  sorrow — hangs  over 
me,  and  I  seek  comfort  here.  My  little  darling  is 
sleeping.  The  fierce  fever  seems  to  have  spent  itself, 
and  she  is  resting  at  last.  Dear  little  Paula,  sweet 
comforter,  how  I  have  loved  you  !  How  angry  I  have 
been  with  God  for  striking  you  with  the  terrible  fever! 
But  you  will  live  now,  my  sweet,  beautiful,  brown- 
eyed  darling !  0  how  I  love  the  child  !  How  I  dream 
and  plan  for  her  future.  She  will  be  a  lovely  woman 
— lovelier  than  any  one  I  know  ;  and  if  God  spares 
me  I  will  try  to  make  it  bright  for  her.  0,  Paula,  my 


MAUD   ARNOLD.  217 

life  would  have  been  so  dead  without  you  !  My  two- 
year  old  darling,  how  sad,  how  desolate  it  has  been 
with  you  lying  here  so  sick  !  I  didn't  know  any  one 
could  grow  so  fond  of  a  little  thing  like  her,  but  she 
seems  dearer  to  me  than  my  own  life.  1  love  my 
father — God  only  knows  how  well ;  I  love  mamma 
and  the  boys  and  Kathie  ;  but  Paula  came  in  answer 
to  a  prayer.  She  is  a  gift  of  God  to  me,  and  I  have 
claimed  her  as  my  own  these  two  years.  I  have  never 
been  parted  from  her  a  day — never  let  any  one  else 
care  for  her,  and  my  wild  eager  heart  clings  to  her — 
my  beautiful,  beautiful  Paula  ! 

OCTOBER  21. — Did  God  ever  give  a  good  gift  and 
then  curse  it  ?  O  !  silence  !  O,  grand,  impenetrable 
Darkness,  answer  me !  Is  God  a  Father  who  loves 
His  children  ?  Can  He  love  and  curse  them  ?  Would 
God,  the  Father,  the  Creator,  do  as  revengeful  man 
does  ?  Then  is  God  less  than  man — then  is  God 
tyranical,  unjust  ?  Let  me  curse  Him  and  die. 

OCTOBER  28. — My  heart  is  broken,  my  faith  is 
spent.  From  now  on  the  world  is  blank,  blank — void 
of  goodness  and  mercy.  The  world  seems  all  too 
desolate  for  my  darling.  O,  my  darling,  readily 
would  I  with  my  seventeen  years  of  knowledge  of 
good  and  evil  have  taken  this  burden  of  years — this 
sorrow  of  life  from  you  ;  but  it  may  not,  cannot  be.  I 
feel  I  am  too  great  a  coward  for  this — too  great  a 
coward  to  bear  this  burden  through  all  the  sad,  sad 
years.  How  can  I  meet  it — this  sorrow  that  God  has 


218  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

sent  ?  Is  there  a  God  ?  Then  how  could  He  strike 
my  heart  as  He  has  done  ?  How  crush  out  my  hopes, 
my  dreams,  my  ambitions,  and  blast  my  darling's 
life,  if  he  is  God  ?  No  !  It  cannot  be  that  God  has 
done  this  thing. 

OCTOBER  31. — I  have  had  many  comforters  and 
sympathizers,  but  how  can  they  know  anything  about 
it?  They  do  not  know — it  is  I  that  love  her — our 
darling  ;  and  she  is — blind — . 

Speak  low;  tread  softly;  let  no  harsh  word  disturb 
the  sorrowful  ones.  Let  not  idle  curiosity  look  upon 
the  sacredness  of  their  grief.  You  may  never  have 
known  sorrow,  and  you  can  not  feel  with  them.  Only 
God  can  understand  the  depth  and  nature  of  our 
grief.  He  it  was  who  laid  the  chastening  rod  across 
our  hearts.  He  it  was  who  gave  and  then  deprived — 
He  blessed,  but  we  heeded  not  the  richness  and 
beauty  of  that  blessing  ;  and  in  an  hour  when  we 
thought  not,  the  light,  the  glory,  the  beauty  faded, 
and  left  us  with  sore  hearts.  How  we  had  loved  those 
beautiful  brown  eyes,  so  full  of  innocent  joy  !  The 
stars  never  seemed  more  beautiful  than  they.  So  full 
of  love,  she  seemed  formed  for  happiness  We  built 
many  a  fairy  castle  for  her.  The  pretty  baby  hands 
that  smoothed  our  brow  so  tenderly  seemed  all  too 
fair  and  soft  to  come  in  contact  with  a  rough  world. 
We  planned  and  worked,  worked  and  planned,  for  her 
future.  We  would  have  had  her  path  flower-strewn 
and  fragrant.  She  was  our  baby — our  almost  idol. 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  219 

Yes,  there  the  fault  lies— we  loved  the  creature  more 
than  the  Creator — the  casket  more  than  the  jewel. 
We  built  our  hopes  on  mortality. 

Our  picture  was  painted  after  the  models  of  man. 
We  wanted  to  give  our  baby  all  the  blessings  of  earth, 
and  forgot  the  Creator  of  that  baby — forgot  her  here 
after.  There  lay  our  sin.  Inasmuch  as  we  idolized 
the  image,  the  Father  became  the  immortal  Icono 
clast  to  break  that  image  in  its  most  beautiful  part, 
and  left  us  what  ?  Health,  life,  youth,  purity — all 
this  He  left  us  ;  but  He  took  from  her  innocent  face 
its  light.  He  left — O,  how  it  hurts  me  to  write  it ! — 
our  darling  blind  !  Only  two  short  years  was  she  per 
mitted  to  see  the  faces  she  loved.  Only  two  summers 
did  she  see  the  earth  in  its  loveliness.  Henceforth 
her  brown  eyes  are  dim,  sightless,  sealed.  The  birds 
may  sing,  the  waters  dance  and  ripple  ;  the  faces  that 
her  baby  eyes  loved  to  look  on  may  light  up  with 
smiles,  or  grow  dim  with  tears  ;  the  seasons  may 
come  and  go;  the  flowers  may  bloom  and  fade;  friends 
may  pass  from  youth  to  age,  or  be  held  in  the  iron 
grasp  of  the  destroyer  ;  brothers  and  sisters  may  go 
away,  and  little  baby  faces  spring  up  around  them  ; 
their  sweet  baby  lips  may  smile  and  prattle  of  the 
beauty  of  earth ;  the  sun  may  rise  and  set,  but  she 
will  not  see  it — the  beauty  of  nature  is  a  closed  book 
to  her.  She  is  blind.  Speak  it  slowly.  Make  no  wild 
pretense  of  sympathy — you  cannot  see  it — you  cannot 
feel  it  as  we  do.  "  She  is  blind."  We  have  so  often 


220  MAUD    ARNOLD. 

heard  these  words  and  thought  them  so  full  of  sad 
ness  ;  but  now  they  seem  to  hold  worlds  of  meaning 
— darkness,  despair,  sorrow,  pain,  mental  and  physi 
cal  suffering  are  all  condensed  into  that  one  word, 
BLIND. 

NOVEMBER  5. — Well  if  everything  ended  in  a  life 
time,  I  think  I  would  like  it ;  if  life  would  drift  away 
from  me  to-day,  I'd  like  it ;  if  I  could  just  clap  my 
hands  together  over  my  aching  heart  now,  and  crush 
its  beatings — crush  the  pain  out  forever.  I  wish  I 
could  tie  the  strings  of  thought  hard,  tie  them  fast.  I 
really  am  puzzled  to  find  a  solution  to  this  problem 
atic  pain,  for  after  all  it  is  a  problem  to  me  ;  it  is  a 
mystery. 

I  am  not  humble — that's  a  certainty  ;  and  I  never 
will  be,  I  am  wicked,  I  am  rebellious,  and  I  fight  so 
hard  that  sometimes  1  grow  too  weary  to  know  that 
the  pain  exists  ;  sometimes  I  am  so  indifferent  that  I 
feel  like  resorting  to  some  strange  penance  to  find  out 
if  it  is  I.  And  yet  when  I  do  up  the  frozen  feelings,  I 
find  them  so  warm,  so  active. 

I  wonder  if  everybody  else  has  such  troubles  as  I 
do.  I  wonder  if  everybody  else  keeps  a  locked  door 
behind  which  they  hide  some  sorrow  ;  if  they  do,  this 
is  certainly  a  world  filled  with  misery  more  than  I  be 
lieved  it ;  but  then  I  know  it  is  not  true  of  every  one; 
I  know  it  is  not  true  that  life  has  a  superabundance 
of  shadow. 

JANUARY   7. — I  have  lived  all  these  weeks  in  a 


MAUD   ARNOLD.  221 

strange  whirl  of  doubt  and  unrest,  but  somehow 
now  the  doubts  seem  less  cloudy,  less  hideous,  and  a 
sort  of  calm  is  spreading  over  my  heart.  I  have  re 
belled  ^,nd  complained,  but  I  have  been  unjust  and 
morbid.  Slowly  the  justness  of  God's  dealings  is 
finding  its  way  into  my  conscience  and  heart,  and  a 
calmer  faith  than  three  months  ago  I  could  have  be 
lieved  possible  fills  my  heart  and  eases  some  of  my 
mad  pain.  I  have  said  it  was  impossible  to  believe 
what  one  could  not  see — impossible  to  believe  what 
one  could  not  understand  ;  but  this  is  rank  sophistry. 
When  we  see  the  roses  blooming  so  beautifully 
we  know  that  they  must  have  had  roots,  they  must 
have  had  health  and  vitality  to  have  made  a  flower  so 
perfect. 

When  we  look  at  the  dainty  sweet  smelling  violet 
we  know  that  an  invisible  power  has  been  at  work  to 
fashion  the  flower  so  delicate  and  small — to  imbue  it 
with  its  fragrance  and  endow  it  with  its  beauty.  We 
know  this.  What  we  see  is  the  flower — we  never 
hesitate  to  say  it  is  a  rose,  a  violet,  but  we  do  not  see 
the  roots  ;  yet  if  we  are  asked,  we  say  we  know  they 
exist.  But  how  do  you  know  it  ?  Other  roses  have 
been  examined  and  the  roots  found ;  therefore  we 
know  that  to  every  flower  is  attached  a  root.  Well, 
we  say  the  violet  is  fragrant,  we  say  we  know  it 
because  it  produces  a  pleasant  impression  on  our 
sense ;  we  have  examined  many  violets,  have  inhaled 
their  sweetness,  have  pressed  them  and  crushed  them 


222  MAUD    ARNOLD. 

and  still  found  them  sweet.  We  could  not  crush  the 
sweetness  out ;  we  could  not  destroy  it ;  yet  we  have 
never  seen  it.  We  have  tried  to  analyze,  tried  to 
grasp  it,  but  it  has  evaded  us;  still  we  know  that  it  is 
there.  How  ?  We  cannot  see  it,  feel  it,  weigh  or 
measure  it,  and  the  olfactory  nerve  is  not  strong 
enough  to  weigh  against  all  the  other  faculties. 

We  say  we  love  certain  people — that  they  are 
congenial  to  us.  We  cannot  analyze  our  feelings  ;  we 
cannot  measure  our  love,  and  yet  we  are  sure  that 
it  is  so ;  how  it  arises,  we  cannot  tell  ;  what  gave  it 
birth  is  a  mystery  past  our  finding  out,  and  yet  we 
know  beyond  all  doubting  that  it  exists  We  feel  its 
influence  ;  we  are  governed  by  it  in  all  our  actions, 
and  we  cannot  doubt  it,  for  to  doubt  it  is  to  lose  desire 
for  life  ;  God  is  and  yet  we  cannot  see  Him.  We  may 
try  to  crush  out  our  loves,  our  hopes,  our  longings  for 
the  great  good,  but  they  exist  truly  as  does  the  scent 
of  the  violet.  None  of  these  sentiments  are  palpable, 
none  tangible,  yet  all  exist. 

We  cannot  prove  the  violet  has  no  odor  because 
we  cannot  see  it.  We  cannot  prove  to  other  people 
that  we  love  any  one,  yet  we  know  it.  We  are  more 
prone  to  doubt  right  things  of  late  years  than  we  were 
a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  and  more  ready  to  grasp 
at  the  new,  wrong  faiths.  Still  there  exists  in  every 
mind  a  half  defined  ideal  of  purity  and  goodness, 
which  we  call  God ;  and  no  matter  how  hard  we  try, 
that  faith  in  the  supremacy  of  a  mind  never  is  eradi- 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  223 

cated.  We  cannot  be  materialists;  no  matter  how  hard 
we  try,  we  will  believe  some  things  that  we  cannot 
see.  God  is,  and  doubts  of  this  fact  only  make  us 
more  sensitive  in  our  faith.  When  we  doubt  a  good 
man's  integrity  and  truth,  and  he  is  true  to  the  core, 
there  comes  a  half  warning  that  we  are  mistaken,  and 
we  cannot  urge  ourselves  into  a  perfect  belief  of  his 
badness.  The  truth  of  his  goodness  is  established  in 
his  own  soul,  and  we  cannot  shake  the  faith  of  it  out 
of  our  own  minds.  And  whatever  is  truth  will  exist ; 
and  the  efforts  to  put  down  the  right  only  make  us 
morbid  and  restless.  Cold  philosophy  amounts  to  but 
little  to  the  soul  and  heart ;  it  touches  the  brain  ;  it 
gives  coolness  in  action,  but  it  never  gulls  or  reaches 
the  truth  that  lies  in  the  soul  and  heart.  Life  is  a 
checker  board  on  which  God  moves  as  King,  and  the 
hosts  that  surround  Him  are  His  knights  and  bishops. 

CHAPTER   III. 

JUNE  1,  18-. — Another  half-year  has  come  and 
passed  away  since  1  wrote  anything  here.  Change 
seems  the  order  of  the  day  all  around.  I  have  been 
into  society  some — I  am  learning  men  and  women 
now,  and  finding  that  the  world,  taking  it  altogether, 

is  pleasanter  than  I  thought. 

****** 

Here  is  an  abrupt  break  in  Maud's  diary — her 
song  of  happiness  is  cut  short,  and  there  seems  to  be 


224  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

a  shadow  gradually  creeping  over  her  young  life  of 
trust.  She  is  too  bright  not  to  make  friends  ;  too  good 
not  to  win  love  ;  and  her  first  intoduction  into  the 
world  made  her  popular  and  a  favorite.  She  had  up 
to  this  time,  except  during  a  short  period  given  in  the 
last  chapter,  been  the  most  trusting  child  I  have  ever 
known,  but  on  the  next  page  I  find  skepticism  is  tak 
ing  root  in  her  heart. 

AUGUST. — Well,  I  am  a  woman  now.  Never  again 
can  I  look  with  such  trusting  eyes  into  the  future — 
never  again  can  I  build  up  such  high  castles  of  im 
agination  as  in  my  childhood  days.  It  took  me  all 
those  years  to  learn  that  I  must  not  rely  too  implicitly 
on  others — to  learn  that  the  world  is  not  full  of  "my 
boys,"  and  that  I  cannot  have  all  love  in  this  life.  It 
has  been  a  hard  lesson  too— a  lesson  difficult  to 
master ;  and  has  taken  more  time  than  I'd  like  to 
spend  on  many  lessons  ;  but  I  hope  there  will  be  little 
necessity  to  spend  so  much  time  on  anything  else. 
Since  I  laid  aside  girlish  pleasures  and  took  upon  my 
self  some  of  the  responsibilities  of  womanhood,  I  find 
everything  around  me  assuming  more  realistic  colors; 
more  broad  and  decided  shape.  I  see  the  things  that 
have  seemed  play  assuming  the  grand  aspect  of  Duty. 
And  yet,  when  I  think  of  it,  I  have  never  known 
childish  pleasure.  Life  has  been  an  active  drama  for 
me  from  the  first.  It  has  been  a  battle  all  along.  I 
am  so  constituted  that  work  and  action  have  seemed 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  225 

pleasure,  and  I  have  not  had  time  to  think  of  what 
was  missing.  I  mean  I  have  not  known  till  now  that 
childhood  is  past,  and  I  have  never  been  a  child. 
When  I  think  of  all  the  strangely  conflicting  circum 
stances  of  my  life — when  I  think  that  I  have  ever 
had  the  heart  to  laugh,  it  shocks  me.  I  cannot  under 
stand  that  I  have  had  any  heart  to  smile.  Truly,  I 
was  born  to  suffer. 

Do  you  know  that  to-day  as  I  sit  here  in  the  sun 
shine  with  this  little  book  of  Mftud's  in  my  hand  it 
seems  almost  wrong  to  transcribe  her  girlish,  out 
spoken  sorrows — they  were  so  sacred  with  her,  so 
deep,  so  real ;  but  I  have  a  task  before  me,  and  I 
must  gather  all  the  links  in  this  beautiful  golden 
chain. 

About  this  time  a  great  quiet  seemed  to  fall  upon 
her.  I  could  not  fathom  it ;  I  could  not  understand 
why  the  gayety  had  fled;  and  her  wise,  womanly 
ways  puzzled  me,  but  she  never  spoke  a  word  of  sor 
row  or  regret  to  me.  It  pained  me  inexpressibly  to 
watch  her  day  after  day  carrying  on  her  face  the 
shadow  of  a  great  grief.  I  have  gone  to  her  room 
when  she  was  not  expecting  me  and  found  her  in 
tears — not  such  tears  as  we  shed  for  those  who  die,  or 
for  a  passing  sorrow ;  but  tears  that  lay  deeper  than 
death — do  you  understand  me  ?  I  have  seen  her  sit 


226  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

for  hours  with  her  eyes  (which  were  too  bright  from 
much  weeping)  fixed  on  something  I  could  not  see ; 
and  yet  when  she  was  with  her  mother  she  laughed 
and  sang,  chatted  and  was  gay.  I  saw  that  something 
was  being  borne  alone  by  my  darling.  One  of  her 
brothers  was  away  from  home — the  one  she  loved 
best  of  all,  but  she  never  spoke  of  him  to  me  as  of 
old.  If  I  mentioned  him,  a  sort  of  convulsion  seemed 
to  take  hold  of  her ,•  but  she  would  remain  silent.  I 
naturally  concluded  that  her  trouble  was  something 
concerning  him,  but  if  it  was,  she  was  too  loyal  to 
him  to  tell  it  even,  to  me.  She  had  many  friends,  but 
she  was  still  my  Maud — no  other  friendship  came  be 
tween  us.  True,  there  was  one  woman  whom  I  always 
distrusted,  but  whom  Maud  seemed  to  love — indeed,  I 
noticed  that  she  was  drawn  toward  this  woman  as  if 
by  a  spell. 

It  seems  strange  to  me  now,  when  I  read  over 
Maud's  little  diary,  how  intensely,  how  deeply  she 
suffered,  even  as  a  child.  She  loved  with  the  im 
petuosity  of  a  southron,  and  suffered  in  proportion. 
When  she  was  only  a  little  past  seventeen  I  married. 
I  remember  even  yet  the  untold  misery  expressed  in 
her  face  on  that  morning.  She — but  you  may  read  it. 

JANUARY  21,  18-. — Kathie  is   married — married 


MAUD   ARNOLD.  227 

to-day,  and  I  am  left  alone,  as  I  was  years  ago  when 
I  went  to  school  for  the  first  time.  O,  Kathie,  Kathie, 
how  I  shall  miss  you  !  for  never  again  will  you  be  to 
me  the  sweet  companion  of  my  joys  and  sorrows — 
another  has  come  between  us.  I  know  it  is  wicked 
and  selfish,  but  I  wish  you  had  never  met  your  Phil 
lip  ;  I  wish  we  could  have  kept  on  as  we  have  always 
done.  If  I  were  like  Helen  now  I  could  make  friends 
with  some  .one  else ;  but  I  cannot ;  I  have  only  you 
and  I  cannot,  cannot  give  you  up.' 

JANUARY  23. — It  seems  to  me  that  Kathie  is  dead ; 
and  yet  I  am  not  so  mean  as  to  wish  her  to  neglect 
the  love  of  her  life  for  me,  though  I  need  and  want 
her  so.  I  think  I  would  rather  die  than  have  her  un 
faithful  in  her  new  duties.  A  woman  has  no  right  to 
marry  a  man  unless  she  loves  him,  and  then  nothing 
should  ever  come  between  them.  I  would  have  Kathie 
love  Phillip  as  the  one  good  thing  in  life.  I  would 
have  her  give  him  every  confidence  and  make  his  life 
her  own,  for  it  seems  to  me  of  all  God's  ordinances, 
there  is  no  other  so  holy,  so  beautiful,  so  binding  as 
marriage  ;  and  I  would  not  come  between  Kathie  and 
Phillip — not  even  to  save  my  heart  from  breaking.  If 
ever  I  should  love  any  man,  I'll  love  him  better  than 
ever  woman  loved  before — love  him  as  my  king,  my 
sovereign,  my  lord,  and  nothing,  no  secret,  no  past 
wrong,  no  dark  deeds  shall  ever  divide  us.  Confidence 
and  faith  must  be  the  watchword  of  married  life.  Ah, 
Kathie,  I  have  lost,  but  I  believe  you  have  gained. 


228  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

JANUARY  30. — Well,  I  am  going  out  now  and  try 
my  success  at  the  wheel  of  fortune.  I  am  tired  of 
living  so  aimlessly.  I  must  be  at  work.  The  children 
need  educating  and  I  must  help  them.  I  am  young 
and  strong  and  I  must  help  the  boys  get  a  start. 

FEBRUARY  2. — The  way  has  opened.  I  am  to  be 
a  country  school  teacher.  Think  of  it !  I,  who  have 
never  been  away  from  home,  am  going  now  to  live 
among  a  new  people  and  try  a  new  work,  It  makes 
me  feel  almost  old  too.  I  am  going  to  undertake  this 
work ;  but  God  will  help  me,  and  I  am  anxious  to  get 
started.  I  want  to  feel  that  I  am  doing  some  good,  be 
it  ever  so  little.  I  want  to  feel  that  my  life  is  not 
utterly  wasted  and  useless. 

ELSWORTH,  July,  188-. — Well,  I  suppose  I  am 
settled,  and  to  tell  the  truth  I  am  not  charmed.  I 
find  that  this  sort  of  life  is  anything  but  poetical  and 
idealistic.  Reality  takes  out  the  rose-colors  of  ro 
mance,  and  the  teacher  we  read  about  who,  by  her 
beauty,  her  grace,  her  elegance  and  numerous  accom 
plishments,  wins  all  hearts,  is  not  the  teacher  we  meet 
in  the  country.  I  suppose  I  am  a  fair  representative 
of  the  class,  and  anybody  knows  I  am  not  up  to  the 
ideal  standard,  and  I  see  little  prospect  of  romance 
here.  The  people  I  board  with  are  nice  respectable, 
country  people,  who  have  a  scorn  of  innovations,  and 
look  upon  my  simple  toilet  arrangements  as  foolery. 
I  shall  try  in  practicable  ways  to  adapt  my  manners 
to  their  requirements,  though  I  may  find  it  a  little 


MAUD   ARNOLD.  229 

hard  at  first ;  but  I  am  not  afraid  of  hardships,  and  I 
never  shrink  from  difficulties.  "Over  the  Alpine 
summit  of  great  pain  lieth  thine  Italy."  I  have  been 
thinking  how  true  this  is.  What  an  incontestable 
fact  it  is  that  "  there  is  no  excellence  without  labor," 
which  means  pain.  Life's  lessons  are  all  hard,  its 
paths  all  steep  and  rugged ;  though  occasionally  we 
find  a  nook  on  the  roadside  which  invites  us  to  rest. 
We  may  have  traveled  over  many  stretches  of  rocks 
to  reach  it,  and  when  it  is  reached  we  cannot  tarry 
long.  The  mandate  is  work,  toil,  endure.  For  over 
the  mountain  top  you  may  see  the  gilded  spires  and 
glittering  dome  of  your  ambition — the  Italy  of  your 
dreams  ;  but  it  takes  time,  patience  and  strength  to 
reach  it.  Go  on.  Keep  the  sunlight  ever  ahead. 
Leave  the  shadows  behind.  Look  always  to  "  Italy  " 
and  REST  will  come. 

From  this  last  passage  I  know  that  Maud's 
womanly  growth  was  perfected.  I  know  that  life  was 
becoming  a  stern  reality  to  her  and  that  she  was 
learning  more  of  trouble  than  I  had  guessed.  Soon 
after  she  was  settled  in  her  new  work  she  wrote,  tell 
ing  me  of  her  surroundings  and  companions.  I 
thought  then,  and  I  think  now,  that  hers  was  a 
nature  made  for  the  most  heroic  sacrifices.  I  think  I 
never  knew  so  strange  a  mingling  of  the  human  and 
the  divine  as  was  noticeable  in  Maud  In  the  sun- 


230  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

shine  of  life  she  was  a  very  woman,  with  all  a 
woman's  caprices,  faults  and  coquetries,  but  when  the 
shadows  stretched  across  the  horizon,  she  was  one  of 
the  noblest,  the  grandest  women  that  ever  lived.  Her 
father  was  one  of  the  best  men  I  ever  knew,  and  yet 
one  of  the  most  unpractical.  Many  times  ruin  and 
beggary  seemed  to  confront  him  ;  but  at  such  times 
Maud  became  the  friend,  the  counselor  and  the  sup 
port  of  his  life — to-day  a  bright  happy  girl,  full  of 
vague  fancies  and  romantic  dreams ;  to-morrow  a 
quiet  practical  woman — a  streak  of  sunshine  in  her 
father's  clouded  sky ;  a  woman  in  whom  the  faculty 
of  tenderness  was  more  fully  developed  than  in  any 
one  else  I  ever  knew.  I  remember  once  we  were 
reading  a  newspaper  paragraph  entitled,  "  Natural 
Mothers,"  in  which  the  writer  explained  the  nature  of 
motherly  affection  in  this  language :  "  There  are 
many  women  whose  lives  have  never  been  blessed 
with  real  motherhood,  but  are  women  whose  lives  are 
perfect  exemplifications  of  the  true  mother-woman ; 
whose  hearts  go  out  in  sympathy  and  love  to  all  weak 
creatures — to  all  suffering  nature,  and  who  know  no 
greater  joy  than  that  of  caring  for  others  "  I  think 
if  ever  a  woman  fulfilled  this  description,  Maud 
Arnold  did.  Her  whole  life  has  been  one  of  self- 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  231 

abnegation.  Many  times  I  have  rebelled  for  her — to 
think  that  she  who  is  so  nobly  fitted  for  a  life  of  per 
fect  beauty  should  always  have  to  tread  rough  paths. 
I  never  heard  her  complain,  but  I  have  known  how 
her  heart  hungered  for  rest.  Sometimes  Helen  Car 
ton  would  bring  me  her  letters  to  read.  I  give  one 
here.  It  shows  the  dreamy  poetic  part  of  her  nature, 
and  the  stern  control  she  put  upon  her  life.  Helen 
loved  Maud  with  a  strong  idolatry,  and  believed  in 
her  as  the  embodiment  of  all  that  was  grand  among 
women.  When  she  received  a  letter  from  her  she 
treasured  it  as  something  precious  In  this  we  were 
alike  and  we  spent  hours  talking  of  our  dear  friend 
and  the  letters  which  were  so  characteristic. 

ELSWORTH,  September  18,  188-. — Little  Helen  : 
I  have  finished  reading  your  last  letter.  It  has  some 
how  served  as  a  link  between  the  past  and  me.  It  has 
recalled  to  memory  the  dear  old  scenes  of  my  child 
hood,  the  bright  hopes  of  my  youth,  the  dreams  of 
my  infancy.  •  I  cannot  tell  how  or  why  I  have  felt  it 
all  so  deeply,  but  it  is  so.  You  know  that  sometimes 
a  bird  note  or  the  tinkle  of  a  bell,  or  perhaps  the  very 
sunshine  reminds  you  of  "a  day  that  is  dead," — your 
fancy  rushes  back  to  a  time  long  past.  O  Past  !  0 
Youth  !  we'd  call  you  back  to-day  if  we  could 

The  other  day  I  was  hearing  a  reading  lesson, 
and  like  a  flash  I  was  carried  back  to  a  day  fifteen 


232  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

years  ago,  when  a  little  child,  I  said  that  same  lesson 
at  my  mother's  side.  I  saw  the  butterflies  in  the 
great  rose  tree  at  the  window ;  heard  the  mocking 
bird  in  the  pear  tree,  and  was  eager  for  the  lesson 
to  be  ended  that  I  might  race  after  the  butterflies. 
It  all  seemed  so  vivid  that  I  could  scarce  realize  that 
I  was  a  woman  of  twenty-two  and  hundreds  of  miles 
from  the  old  home,  teaching  school  for  a  bare  sub 
sistence.  0,  Helen,  I  have  learned  some  hard  lessons, 
haven't  I  ?  But  I  do  not  know  that  I  regret  them — 
that  is,  I  do  not  regret  the  knowledge  and  experience ; 
I  only  regret  the  learning  ;  but  it  had  to  come  sooner 
or  later  ;  and  the  bitterest  part  is  over. 

And  so  you  are  going  to  put  off  your  freedom 
and  buckle  on  the  armor  of  matrimony — if  you  can 
keep  the  same  mind  long  enough;  but,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  sadly  fear  your  knight  will  not  win  his  spurs 
after  all,  for  you  are  a  fickle  maiden  and  have  not  yet 
learned  the  lesson  of  constancy.  But  I  will  not  write 
you  a  long  letter  of  advice  and  congratulation  until  I 
know  beyond  a  doubt  that  Helen  Carton  has  merged 
her  existence  into  that  of  another.  I  know  those 
pretty  eyebrows  are  drawn  close  together  in  dis 
pleasure  at  my  outspoken  skepticism,  but  never  mind 
— :time  will  tell.  Now  smile  and  kiss  me  a  loving 
good-night,  my  dark-eyed  maiden,  and  believe  me 
when  I  say  I  cannot  get  along  without  your  love. 

MAUD. 

Maud  wrote  to  me  often  after  this,  telling  me  of 


MAUD   ARNOLD.  233 

her  work  and  her  recreations.  She  was  always  an 
inveterate  bookworm,  and  now  her  time  was  almost 
entirely  spent  among  the  poets.  Her  diary  gives  evi 
dence  of  the  impressions  made  by  her  reading. 

APRIL  9,  188-. — I  have  just  put  aside  Dante's 
Inferno.  The  book  has  set  my  brain  on  fire.  I  am 
deeper  in  love  than  ever  with  the  poets.  They  are 
gods.  Poetry  means  to  create.  When  from  the 
beautiful  volume  of  Thought  springs  a  poem,  a  grand 
heroic  strain  of  martial  achievement  and  mighty 
deeds,  we  rejoice  with  a  joy  which  is  almost  equal  to 
that  of  the  Creator.  To  us  is  denied  the  power,  the 
beautiful  gift  of  Song,  but  we  catch  the  music  and 
hear  the  echo  in  our  hearts.  The  poets,  God's  Singers 
— they  speak  to  us  in  rhythmical  measure.  They  tell 
of  joys  which  we  cannot  describe,  but  dimly  feel. 
They  tell  us  of  a  beauty  which  a  painter  cannot  put 
on  canvas.  God  bless  the  poets  ! — they  live  up  higher 
than  we.  They  live  with  "visions  for  their  company," 
and  yet  we  crush  and  cripple  them.  We  clip  their 
wings  when  they  would  fly.  We  hold  them  to  the 
earth  when  they  would  soar  to  Heaven. 

"O  world!  that  listens  when  too  late, 
Unto  the  voice  that  sings, 

And  loves  the  music  when  the  years 
Have  shattered  many  strings; 

But  little  owes  the  Bard  to  you 
For  praises  from  your  tongue, 

Who  heard  not  when  the  Harp  was  new, 
And  love' and  life  were  young." 


234  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

"  Poetry  and  art  and  knowledge  are  sacred  and 
pure."  Let  man  or  woman  try  to  dull  the  cravings, 
the  ambitious  longings  of  the  brain  and  heart.  These 
longings  after  the  beautiful,  the  ideal  infinity  of  learn 
ing,  are  not  things  of  man's  fashioning,  but  are  im 
pressions  of  God's  own  ideality  of  mental  mechanism. 
He  implants  vast  conceptions  of  truth  in  the  brain, 
and  if,  to  an  overwhelming  desire  for  the  ability  to 
give  these  conceptions  wings,  the  circumstances  of  our 
life  stand  opposed  ;  if  the  knowledge  of  our  weakness, 
as  opposed  to  the  combined  circumstances,  comes, 
regret,  despair  and  discontent  are  but  natural ;  but 
they  will  pass  away ;  for  somehow  an  outlet  will  open 
after  awhile,  which  will  in  a  measure  gratify  one's 
ambition.  But  if  we  crush  our  impulsive  longings, 
we  crush  out  our  soul ;  for  all  that  is  high  and  beauti 
ful,  all  that  is  rare  and  lovely,  emanates  from  God, 
and  God  works  in  the  soul. 

APRIL  12,  188-.— '-The  life  that  leads  to  Heaven, 
is  not  retirement  from  the  world,  but  action  in  the 
world."  To-day  when  I  read  this,  it  came  to  me  as  a 
pain,  and  I  was  angry  that  it  had  been  written,  for  I 
knew  that  it  was  true  ;  but  it  does  not  accord  with  my 
resolution,  with  my  aims  ;  and  I  am  too  selfish  to 
want  to  do  right,  even  if  it  conflicts  with  my  precon 
ceived  ideas.  I  want  to  stay  away  from  the  world  ;  1 
want  to  grow  good  in  silence ;  I  want  to  become 
beautiful  in  soul,  alone.  I  have  already  seen  too 
much  of  weakness,  and  am  too  weak  myself  to  have 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  235 

any  desire  for  further  knowledge.  Perhaps  if  I  were 
stronger  I  should  not  feel  so  much  the  wrongs  that 
others  do.  It  may  be  I  depend  on  others  to  maintam 
the  good  that  is  in  me,  and  in  doing  this  I  am  made 
aware  of  the  bad  in  them.  I  think  I  have  been  a 
child  till  now — that  I  have  felt  as  a  child ;  but  this 
can  never  be  again.  The  child  is  dead — the  woman 
lives.  I  have  had  confidence  and  given  faith  which 
has  led  to  my  undoing.  I  believed  too  much,  and  in 
believing,  granted  too  much.  Now  I  must  live  more 
and  act  less — must  believe  less  and  exact  faith  in 
myself.  I  wonder  if  I  can  live  in  the  world,  and  act 
out  a  noble,  pure,  beautiful  life ;  God  grant  I  may. 

"  Thou  must  be  brave  thyself, 

If  thou  the  truth  wouldst  teach ; 
Live  truly  and  thy  life  shall  he 
A  great  and  noble  speech." 

There  is  my  answer.  I,  then,  have  been  the 
wrongdoer.  I  have  not  been  true  and  brave  ;  and  it  is 
I  who  have  taught  others  wrong ;  I  have  been  the 
weak  coward  ;  I  have  made  some  one  else  act  a  lie — 
have  led  some  one  else  along  crooked  paths.  I  never 
knew  it  before.  I  have  blamed  others  for  my  wrong. 
I  have  condemned  them  as  false  when  it  was  I  who 

• 

was  false.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  undo  this  wrong. 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  impress  them  with  my  truth 
again,  and  I  cannot  set  them  right  any  more. 

APRIL  16,  188-. — What  a  dreary,  sunless  day  ;  so 
full  of  foreboding  trouble  ;  so  full  of  dim  shadows 


236  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

and  mocking  hopes  ;  a  day  in  which  nature  seems  in 
harmony  with  my  feelings.  I  do  not  believe  nature 
feels  the  pain  and  grief  of  humanity.  There  certainly 
is  a  great  deal  of  suffering  about  us,  and  God  sees  it 
all — nature  is  alive  to  our  griefs.  What  a  pleasant 
thought  it  is  that  God  knows — that  Nature  feels  ! 
There  are  so  many  men  and  women  around  us  who 
bear  the  heaviest  burdens  daily ;  but  who  hide  them 
under  a  cloak  of  happiness — of  borrowed  smiles  ! 
Aching  hearts  there  are  around  us,  and  yet  we  laugh 
and  are  gay,  as  if  in  all  God's  universe  there  was 
naught  but  joy  and  hope.  We  fill  up  the  measure  of 
happiness  after  our  own  manner,  as  if  there  were  no 
dead  hopes,  no  aching  hearts,  no  worn  and  weary  feet. 
But,  thank  God !  He  knows,  He  feels,  He  cares. 

APRIL  18. — I  have  just  been  reading  a  book  of 
travels,  and  among  the  things  which  struck  me  the 
most  forcibly  is  the  description  of  an  old  church  yard 
in  which  this  inscription  is  traced  on  a  grave  stone  : 

HERE  REPOSES 
IN  GOD, 

CAROLINE  DECLEVY, 

A  RELIGIETJ8E  OF  ST.    DENIS, 
AGED   83    YEARS, 

AND  BLIND. 
THE  LIGHT  WAS  RESTORED  TO  HER 

IN  BADEN, 

THE  5TH  OP  JANUARY, 
1839. 

Just  that  and  nothing  more,  and  yet  it  is  enough. 


MAUD   ARNOLD.  237 

Grand,  trusting  faith — "  light  restored!"  Think  of  it; 
a  life-long  groping  in  darkness  ;  wandering  in  the 
valley  of  midnight — wrapped  in  a  night  of  years. 
Think  of  the  life — think  of  the  restoration.  "A  re- 
ligieuse  of  St.  Denis."  There  is  the  history  of  a  life 
in  five  words ;  a  history  of  privation  and  tender  min 
istration  ;  of  renunciation.  A  volume  could  not  have 
said  more.  A  woman,  tender,  young  and  fair  when 
she  began  her  work  ;  aged,  blind  and  weary  when  in 
darkness  it  closed.  Dead !  Yes,  forgotten  by  men 
and  women — passed  out  of  existence,  out  of  memory; 
life's  trials  ended  forever.  No,  there  is  nothing  strange 
in  that.  "It  is  but  the  common  fate  of  all;"  but 
there  is  more.  There  is  something  beautiful,  sublime, 
thrilling  in  one  little  line  of  the  epitaph  which  may 
also  be  "the  common  fate  of  all:"  "Light  was  re 
stored  to  her."  Here  we  have  the  history  of  a  life  ; 
the  weariness,  the  pain,  the  darkness,  the  despair, 
and,  last  of  all,  the  compensation  ;  rare,  beautiful, 
more  priceless  than  gold — a  recompense  for  every  woe, 
a  reward  for  every  good  deed,  a  joy  forever. 

How  that  little  word,  blind,  goes  to  my  heart.  I 
feel  that  some  link  binds  me  to  that  past  of  hers, 
which  I  never  knew.  Deep  down  in  my  heart  I  feel 
the  sorrow  of  hers,  for  I  bear  the  sorrow  of  one  that 
is  dearer  to  me  than  anything  in  the  world.  O  my 
dear  little  Paula,  you  are  beginning  now  to  learn  the 
weight  of  the  burden  you  have  to  bear ;  but,  thank 
God,  "light  will  be  restored"  some  day — glorious, 
everlasting  light — infinite  joy  and  peace. 


238  MAUD    ARNOLD. 


Here  comes  a  mighty  jar,  a  terrible  despair  in 
Maud's  life.  One  day  this  message  reached  her  : 
"Come  home  ;  Paula  is  dying." 

She  came.  I  have  seen  women  suffer,  but  I  never 
saw  such  strong,  relentless  grief  as  hers,  when  she 
came  and  found  her  idol — dead,  DEAD.  When  the 
great  misfortune  came  to  Paula,  Maud  was  like  one 
stunned  ;  but  after  awhile  came  the  relief  in  that  life 
was  left — she  still  had  her  darling's  love  and  could 
exercise  that  beatific  mother  faculty  for  the  dear  one. 
But  when  the  second  stroke  came,  there  seemed  noth 
ing  left.  One  by  one  the  links  of  happiness  had  been 
snapped,  until  now  there  remained  so  little; — and  she 
was  so  hungry-hearted,  so  full  of  loving  tenderness  ; 
yes,  Paula  was  gone. 

From  that  day  I  never  heard  her  speak  of  her 
sister.  She  grew  pale  and  thin  and  deeper  sadness 
shone  in  her  eyes  than  was  natural.  She  went  back 
to  her  work  and  worked  to  "still  despair."  I  went  to 
see  her  once  and  Paul  went  with  me.  He  had  never 
seen  her  since  she  was  a  child — that  is,  she  seemed  a 
very  child  to  us.  I  never  saw  him  so  attracted  by  a 
face,  as  he  was  by  hers  ;  and  somehow  the  sadness  in 
her  eyes  crept  into  his.  When  we  went  home  Phillip 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  239 

noticed  it  and  asked  me  about  it.  I  knew  nothing, 
could  tell  nothing.  Paul  went  away.  He  wandered 
from  place  to  place,  aimlessly,  recklessly  it  seemed  to 
me — I  could  not  understand  it. 

Maud  rarely  wrote  to  me  now.  But  once  I  re 
ceived  a  letter  when  Paul  was  on  a  visit  to  me.  I 
noticed  that  he  was  much  agitated  and  left  the  room 
while  I  read  it.  When  he  came  back  I  handed  it 
to  him.  He  never  returned  it.  I  was  troubled  more 
than  I  can  tell  at  the  change  in  him.  Early  in  the 
spring  of  the  next  year,  Maud's  mother  died,  and  she 
was  again  called  home.  Her  grief  at  this  time,  though, 
terrible,  brought  about  a  favorable  reaction.  She  saw 
now  that  her  work  was  imperative  ;  and  she  was 
forced  by  stern  duty  to  wear  the  semblance  of  a  smile 
for  her  father's  sake,  and  the  effort  brought  its  recom 
pense. 

CHAPTER    IV. 

After  Maud  comes  back  and  is  settled  in  the  old 
house,  the  shadow  seems  to  drift  out  of  her  eyes ;  the 
burden  on  her  heart  seems  lighter.  Why  ?  Because 
Maud,  my  peerless  Maud,  is  learning  the  lessons  of 
love.  Through  years  she  worked  and  struggled  for 
others  ;  planning  and  hoping  and  working  for  them, 


240  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

with  no  time  for  selfish  thoughts  and  girlish  dreams, 
living  on  merely  a  pittance  of  affection ;  for  it  is 
always  so  ;  they  who  love  deeply  and  unselfishly  are 
fed  on  husks,  and  rewarded  with  coldness.  The  girl's 
heart  had  ached  for  warmth  and  sunshine,  it  had 
pleaded  for  the  beauty  and  glory  of  love,  but  plead  in 
vain.  Some  shadow  would  come  between  her  heart 
and  its  fruition,  till  a  calm  defiance  settled  on  her 
soul — a  resolution  to  let  happiness  alone — to  take 
only  what  came  and  not  to  dream  or  hope.  But  this 
resolution  on  her  part  was  disastrous.  She  was  young 
and  had  an  almost  unlimited  capacity  for  hoping  ; 
and  to  give  up  life,  to  cease  dreaming,  was  putting 
too  strong  a  curb  upon  her  nature.  A  little  longer 
and  she  would  have  lost  all  the  beauty  of  her  char 
acter,  all  the  sunshine  of  her  nature,  and  all  the 
sweets  of  womanhood.  But  she  came  home  to  us, 
and  gradually  the  smiles  crept  back  to  her  lips,  then 
to  her  eyes. 

And  Paul ! — ah,  my  brother,  that  was  a  time  of 
perfect  peace,  and  joy  to  you  !  I  think  from  the  time 
he  first  saw  Maud  in  that  tiresome  school  room,  he 
loved  her.  Why  he  did  not  seek  her  and  win  her, 
I  cannot  tell,  unless  it  was  that  he  depreciated  him 
self  and  exalted  her.  Then  perhaps  the  fact  of  her 


MAUD   ARNOLD.  241 

girlish  dislike  and  jealousy  of  himself  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  it.  At  any  rate,  he  never  sought  her 
out ;  but  when  fate  or  God  placed  her  in  his 
pathway,  he  accepted  the  situation  and  improved  it. 
At  first  Maud  was  quietly  indifferent  and  cold.  But 
little  by  little  this  changed  ;  little  by  little  her  heart 
melted,  until  I  believe  she  was  the  most  deeply 
happy  woman  I  ever  knew.  She  never  spoke  to  me, 
she  never  told  me ;  but  I  could  see  it,  and  feel  it,  and 
it  rejoiced  my  soul.  Sometimes  Phillip  and  I  would 
watch  her  sitting  alone  on, the  grass  under  the  trees, 
with  her  book  or  her  work  lying  untouched  in  her  lap, 
with  that  beautiful,  happy  light  in  her  eyes  which 
ever  sent  a  thrill  to  my  heart.  Paul  was  my  brother 
and  I  loved  him,  I  trusted  him ;  but  it  made  my 
blood  stand  still,  if  for  a  moment  the  thought  of  the 

possibility  of  his  proving  himself  unworthy  came  to 

» 
me.     I  knew  Maud,  with  her  impetuosity,  with  her 

deep,  grand  love,  could  not  stand  it.  I  knew  that  in 
loving  him,  she  believed  in  him  implicitly  ;  but  that 
with  all  her  love,  if  he  proved  himself  weak  or  un 
worthy,  she  would  cast  him  from  her  heart,  even  if  it 
tore  it  to  fragments  ;  knew  too  that  she  had  given  to 
him  what  she  could  never  give  to  another ;  knew  that 
if  he  proved  unworthy,  she  would  forever  cast  him  out 


242  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

from  her  heart,  and  her  nature  would  become  warped 
into  hideous  misanthropy.  Here  is  what  she  writes 
in  her  little  diary  : 

MARCH  18,  188-. — To-day  my  life  was  given  its 
crowning  joy ;  to-day  the  shadows  dispersed,  and 
the  sunshine  floods  my  soul.  The  clouds  which  have 
shadowed  my  pathway  had  a  silver  lining.  Bless  the 
Lord,  0,  my  soul,  and  all  that  is  within  me,  bless  his 
holy  name.  How  wicked  I  have  been  to  doubt  Him  ! 
How  wicked  to  think  there  was  no  God !  and  to  feel 
like  cursing  the  day  of  my  birth,  and  longing  for 
death.  How  cowardly  I  have  been — weaker  than  I 
knew  ;  for  I  have  been  tempted  to  trifle  with  the  life 
God  gave  me  ;  and  now  God,  my  Father,  has  been 
good  to  me  as  if  I  had  always  obeyed  him.  He  has 
sent  me  joy  and  hope  and  love.  0,  God,  forgive  me, 
and  blot  my  past  sins  from  thy  record  and  help  me  in 
the  future ! 

***** 

0,  Maud,  Maud,  how  sweet  was  the  hour  of  your 
happiness  !  How  beautiful  the  day  of  your  sunlight! 
God  pity  us  who  hold  the  happiness  of  a  human 
being  in  our  hands  !  God  help  us  to  be  true  and 
good ! 

The  spring  glided  into  summer — the  dewdrops 
became  roses  and  lilies  and  our  Maud  sang  from 
morning  till  night — full  of  happiness,  full  of  love 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  243 

and  gayety.  We  fashioned  the  pretty  dresses  and 
dainty  garments  for  our  Maud's  bridal.  She  would 
come  to  my  sewing  room  sometimes  and  sit  down  on 
a  little  stool  at  my  feet,  and  handle  laces  and  edgings, 
not  noticing  them  but  watching  me.  One  day  she 
said ; 

•'  Kathie,  what  are  you  making  all  these  things 
for  ?" 

"  My  Maud,  you  little  lady,  you  are  going  to  be 
forced  into  society,  dear,  and  you  will  find  them  all 
serviceable." 

"  Kathie,  I  shall  not  need  them  where  I  am  go 
ing.  Let  them  alone.  God  will  take  care  of  my  fu 
ture  better  than  you  can.  Don't  work  on  them,  dear. 
I  would  rather  have  you  talk  to  me." 

"But,  Maud,  that  is  unnatural.  You  are  only 
teasing  me." 

"No,  I  am  not,  Kathie.  You  may  finish  that 
white  dress  as  soon  as  you  please,  but  don't  worry 
over  the  other  things.  Paul  likes  me  in  white,  with 
lilies,  and  I  want  to  wear  them  that  day.  1  want 
you  to  make  me  look  as  beautiful  as  you  can,  Kathie; 
for  I  want  him  to  remember  me  always  as  sweet  and 
good  and  pure  like  the  lilies,  you  know.  He  says  I 
am  the  lily  of  his  heart.  He  loves  me  very  dearly, 


244  MAUD   ARNOLD. 

Kathie,  and  I  would  have  him  hold  me  ever  the  true, 
pure,  white  lily — the  snowy,  snowy  lily.  Sometime, 
Kathie,  he  might  unlearn  some  of  the  lessons  he  is 
learning  now,  you  know ;  if  I  should  ever  be  less 
good  and  sweet  than  he  thinks  me  now, — and  that 
would  break  my  heart ;  so  I  shall  not  give  him  a 
chance.  God  shall  care  for  me,  and  I  shall  always  be 
the  lily  of  his  heart.  Remember,  Kathie,  they  must 
be  those  snowy,  waxen  lilies  in  the  lower  garden ; 
not  a  bit  of  color  in  them.  I  think  you  will  find  them 
in  bloom  then." 

She  had  never  before  alluded  in  any  way  to 
Paul's  love  for  her  or  hers  for  him.  It  puzzled  me, 
and  there  was  something  so  quiet,  so  perfectly  peace 
ful  in  her  tone,  that  it  made  tears  in  my  heart.  She 
rose,  kissed  me  on  the  brow,  and  went  out.  I  sat  for 
some  moments  thinking  of  her  voice  and  manner, 
then  took  up  the  dress — a  soft,  snowy  cashmere — and 
put  all  the  finishing  touches  on  it.  But  somehow,  in 
spite  of  myself,  the  tears  would  fall.  At  last  I  folded 
the  pretty  white  dress  which  our  Maud  was  to  be 
married  in,  and  sat  down  and  sobbed  as  if  my  heart 
would  break.  Five  days  later  Maud  came  to  my 
room  with  a  bright  light  in  her  eyes,  and  said : 

"0,  Kathie,  the  lilies  will  be  in  time.     There  are 


MAUD    ARNOLD.  245 

five  which  will  be  open  in  the  morning.  Now,  don't 
forget  them,  dear." 

And  I  did  not.  I  can  never  forget  the  white  lilies. 
In  the  morning  we  dressed  our  Maud  in  the  snowy 
dress,  with  lilies  at  her  throat,  and  in  her  hand,  and 
then  we  called  Paul.  O,  God  !  Thy  will !  But  it  was 
a  hard,  hard  struggle. 

"Paul,  I  can't  tell  it  you,  for  my  heart  is  all 
ready  to  break  now  !" 

' '  She  is  dead !     No  more  will  her  white  fingers  sweep 

The  yielding  ivory  keys  with"  rare,  sweet  grace ; 
No  more  will  the  glad,  exultant,  glorious  soul 
Leap  up  with  rapturous  light  into  her  face, 
When  through  her  parted  lips  flow  forth  rich  waves  of  sound, 
Till  earth  is  made  a  heaven,  with  heavenly  music  crowned. 

m 

"  She  is  dead!     Never  more  will  her  fair  hand  pen 

Thoughts  glowing  with  language  quaint  and  eloquent — 
Thoughts,  which  in  the  virgin  soil  of  her  pure  heart 

All  silently  grew  in  sweet  imprisonment, 
To  greet  at  last  the  heart's  congenial  who 
Love  what  is  good,  ennobling,  beautiful  and  true. 

"  She  is  dead!     Never  again  will  birds  and  flowers, 

And  little  children  filled  with  wondrous  love, 
Feel  the  soft  glance  of  her  deep,  haunting  eyes. 

Radiantly  tender,  all  other  eyes  above ; 
Or  the  delicate,  gracious  and  caressing  touch 
Of  her  who  here  hath  lost,  but  there  hath  gained  so  much. 


246  ONE    CHRISTMAS    DAY. 


She  is  dead!     The  silver  cord  is  loosed — 

The  earthen  pitcher  shattered  at  the  fount — 

The  golden  chalice  broken  and  the  pure  soul 
Hath  plumed  its  flight  to  Zion's  holy  mount ; 

While  we.  who  love  her  so,  mourn  her  vacant  place, 

And  yearn  in  vain,  to  gaze  upon  her  angel  face. 

She  is  dead !     She  tried  to  do  her  best 
Within  the  narrow  precincts  of  her  daily  life; 

God's  voice  hath  been  her  guide  through  weal  and  woe ; 
God's  hand  hath  led  her  safely  through  this  mortal  strife. 

Place  this  pale  lily  upon  the  saintly  breast, 

And  leave  her  to  her  last  and  everlasting  rest." 


ONE  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

The  flames  leaped  up  brightly  in  the  great  wide.- 
mouthed  chimney,  and  the  piled  up  hickory  logs 
cracked  and  popped  as  if  every  fibre  in  them  was 
strained  to  do  duty  on  this  Christmas  Eve.  A  family 
of  grown  and  half-grown  children  were  gathered  in 
the  old-fashioned  high-ceiled  room,  which,  built  in 
the  early  days  of  Kentucky,  had  done  duty  many 
years  as  "keeping-room."  One  small,  plump,  dark- 
haired  girl,  was  comfortably  seated  on  the  rug,  tying 
up  wreaths  of  holly  and  cedar,  to  finish  the  festoon 
that  was  partly  looped  around  the  room,  and  her 


ONE   CHRISTMAS   DAY.  247 

tongue  was  rattling  along  at  electric  speed,  telling  her 
brother  about  the  grand  party  to  be  given  at  their 
nearest  neighbor's  on  the  ensuing  evening. 

"You  know,  Guy,  that  Mabel  has  just  returned 
home,  and  Mr.  Hill  is  going  to  kill  three  birds  with 
one  stone — that  is,  celebrate  her  home-coming,  her 
birth-day  and  Christmas.  It  is  to  be  a  splendid 
affair, — do  give  me  that  bunch  of  holly,  Fred,  and — 
Dick,  you  go  and  break  off  a  few  more  branches  of 
cedar — 0  !  Kate,  isn't  this  lovely  ?"  holding  up  a 
great  cluster  of  berries  and  pressed  autumn  leaves. 
"  Now,  Gruy,  I  want  you  to  set  your  curls  and  brown 
eyes  to  captivate  Mabel — Hattie,  bring  me  the  scissors, 
and  don't  take  them  away  any  more ! — Kate,  have 
you  practiced  that  anthem  ?  I  hope  papa  will  bring 
my  box  of  flowers  from  town — "  . 

"  0  sister  !  your  tongue  must  need  rest ;  and  if 
you  don't  stop  talking  so  fast  and  so  much,  you  can't 
sing  at  all  to-morrow  ;"  and  tall,  handsome  Kate, 
laughingly  laid  her  hand  over  her  sister's  mouth. 
Elizabeth  gave  a  clear  musical  laugh  in  response,  and 
sprang  up,  saying : 

"  This  is  done,  and  now  Guy,  make  yourself  use 
ful  as  well  as  ornamental — mount  that  ladder  and 
hang  this  wreath  for  me — you  can  make  your  mark 


248  ONE    CHRISTMAS    DAY. 

that  high,  if  no  higher,  and  your  influence  will  be  felt 
above  us  all  !" 

"  Especially  if  he  should  fall  back  on  us  from  his 
elevated  position,"  said  Dick. 

The  wreath  was  hung,  the  mottoes  arranged,  the 
chandeliers  festooned  with  mistletoe  boughs  and  holly, 
the  litter  cleared  away,  and  the  whole  house,  from 
garret  to  cellar,  was  in  order.  When  the  tea  bell  rang, 
the  young  folks,  forgetting  their  dignity,  went  skip 
ping  across  the  wide  old  hall  into  the  great  dining- 
room,  as  if  they  were  children.  Even  handsome  Kate 
got  off  her  "stilts,"  as  Elizabeth  called  it,  and  allowed 
Guy  to  lead  her  into  the  room  with  most  undignified 
rapidity.  When  they  were  all  seated,  the  white- 
haired  father  asked  a  blessing,  after  which  there  was 
silence  for  several  minutes  broken  only  by  the  crack 
ling  of  the  logs  on  the  fire  and  the  chirp  of  the 
cricket.  Then  the  father  said  : 

"  Well,  my  children,  this  has  been  a  busy  day 
with  you,  hasn't  it  ?  and  I  expect  you  have  planned 
to  have  a  gay  time  to-morrow,  especially  as  it  promises 
to  be  a  white  Christmas,  if  it  keeps  snowing  at  the 
rate  it  has  begun." 

"  Hurrah  for  the  snow !"  cried  Dick,  springing 
from  his  seat  in  his  delight. 


ONE   CHRISTMAS    DAY.  249 

"0,  I  am  so  glad  !"  said  Fred. 

"  O,  the  snow!     The  beautiful  snow! 
Filling  the  sky,  and  the  earth  below — 
Over  the  house-tops,  over  the  street, 
Over  the  heads  of  the  people  you  meet ; 
Dancing,  flirting,  skimming  along," 

quoted  Kate,  and  Elizabeth  added  : 

"  The  town  is  alive  and  its  heart  is  aglow, 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow ;" 

Then  Guy  repeated  : 

"  There's  nothing  so  pare  as  the  beautiful  snow." 

' '  O,  God !  in  the  stream  that  for  sinners  doth  flow, 
Wash  me  and  I  shall  be  whiter  than  snow," 

said  the  mother  softly. 

"  Bravo !"  said  Elizabeth,  "  mamma  has  capped 
the  climax." 

"  But  then  children,"  said  their  grandmother,  who 
had  been  so  quiet  that  for  once  she  was  forgotten, 
"there  are  little  children  that  will  suffer  from  the 
effects  of  the  '  Beautiful  Snow.'  " 

"That's  true  mother,"  said  Mr.  Weldon.  "Every 
pleasure  has  some  shadow  of  regret.  I  was  thinking 
this  evening  that  it  has  been  twenty  years  since  there 
were  no  little  stockings  to  hang  up  in  this  home.  My 
girls  are  all  too  big  for  that  now.  Last  year  Bertie's 


250  ONE    CHRISTMAS    DAY. 

little  stockings  were  to  fill,  but  he's  gone  where  there 
is  a  perpetual  feast,  and  he  is  whiter  than  the 
"  Beautiful  Snow ;"  but,  my  children,  suppose  you 
take  your  baskets  and  go  out  and  find  some  little 
stockings  to  fill." 

There  were  tears  in  Elizabeth's  voice  as  she 
answered  : 

"  Yes,  papa,  we  will  go." 

They  were  all  somewhat  saddened  by  the  men 
tion  of  the  little  darling  that  had  gone  out  from  them, 
and  were  ready  to  do  this  for  his  sake. 

Though  there  was  no  moon,  it  was  not  very  dark? 
for  the  white  earth  lent  its  light.  Guy,  with  two 
baskets  overflowing  with  good  things  ;  Dick  and  Fred 
also  well  loaded ;  Kate,  with  a  basket  filled  with 
shawls  and  flannels ;  and  Elizabeth,  according  to  her 
nature,  with  an  assortment  of  everything — clothes  for 
children  of  all  sizes,  shawls,  edibles,  toys,  dolls,  mit 
tens,  stockings,  and,  in  fact,  the  largest  bundle  of  all, 
stood  in  the  hall,  waiting  for  a  hack  to  take  their 
stores,  each  a  little  quieter  than  usual.  Their  grand 
mother  came  out  with  a  large  paper  box,  saying  : 

"  Here,  children,  is  my  offering,  and  God  bless 
your  gifts  !" 


ONE    CHRISTMAS    DAY.  251 

Elizabeth  raised  the  cover,  and  exclaimed  joy 
ously  : 

"0,  grandmamma,  how  welcome  they  will  be  to 
some  cold  feet  this  freezing  weather, — see,  Guy,  there 
are  two  dozen  pairs  of  socks.  Isn't  she  too  good  ?" 
she  said  kissing  her  grandmother  rapturously. 

"  Who  made  all  the  little  garments  in  that 
basket,  Bessie  ?"  said  grandma,  with  a  kindly  sparkle 
in  her  eyes. 

"  0,  but  grandma,  I  am  young,  and  ought  to  do 
it — besides,  Katie  did  as  much  as  I — but  wasn't  it 
splendid  of  papa  to  think  of  our  taking  these  things 
to-night  instead  of  waiting  till  morning  ?  Ah !  here 
is  John  with  the  hack — let's  put  the  baskets  and 
bundles  in  and  we  will  walk.'' 

There  was  not  a  house  in  the  village,  where 
poverty  reigned,  that  was  not  visited  that  night;  and 
not  a  little  heart  in  the  community  that  did  not  beat 
with  happiness  the  next  morning ;  and  every  man, 
woman  and  child  that  could  leave  home,  was  at 
church ;  and  every  heart,  if  not  every  voice,  joined  in 
the  anthem,  "  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 

The  sweet  face  of  the  Madonna  smiled  down  on 
the  group  gathered  in  Mr.  Weldon's  parlor  Christmas 
evening ;  and  Elizabeth  was  standing  just  under  the 


252  "THEY  MET  BY  CHANCE." 

chandelier  and  looking  up  at  a  new  picture  to  which 
a  card  was  attached,  bearing  the  simple  inscription 
"To  Miss  Elizabeth  Weldon,"  when  Henry  Clinton 
stepped  to  her  side  and  breaking  off  a  bunch  of  holly 
and  mistletoe,  said : 

"  Miss  Bessie,  do  you  know  the  forfeit  for  being 
caught  under  the  mistletoe  ?" 

Elizabeth  blushed  and  stepped  aside  quickly, 
saying : 

"If  I  am  caught  there  again,  I  will  pay  the 
forfeit." 

"And,"  said  he,  "if  I  catch  you  there  again,  I 
will  hold  you  strictly  to  your  promise  and  ask  you 
for  another." 


"THEY  MET  BY  CHANCE." 

The  mellow  light  of  an  April  morning  crept 
through  the  latticed  window  of  a  modest  little 
chamber  in  a  modest  little  cottage  on  the  outskirts 
of  a  pretty  village  in  the  sunny  land  of  Florida,  and 
rested  for  a  few  moments  on  the  dark  hair  of  a 
young  man  ;  then  shifted  its  position  so  that  it  lay 
upon  his  face,  and  caused  him  to  open  wide  his  brown 


"THEY  MET  BY  CHANCE."  253 

eyes.  He  pushed  the  fleecy  blanket  from  his  breast, 
and  said  impatiently  : 

"I  have  overslept  myself  again,  and  she  will  not 
come  any  more  until  to-morrow,  and  so  I  must  wait. 
It  is  strange  she  seems  to  avoid  my  seeing  her  at  all. 
I  almost  dread  the  prospect  of  my  recovery,  for  then  I 
will  have  to  leave  this  little  Eden,  and  of  course  leave 
Eve  behind." 

There  was  no  one  in  the  room  save  the  sick  man 
when  he  awoke,  but  as  he  ceased  speaking  a  pleasant 
little  woman  of  perhaps  forty-five  entered  and  ap 
proached  the  bed,  and  bending  almost  tenderly  over 
the  sufferer,  brushed  back  the  rich,  clustering  hair, 
and  bathed  the  feverish  brow.  She  moved  about  put 
ting  things  to  rights,  and  then  seated  herself  in  an 
easy  chair  beside  the  bed  and  began  to  arrange  some 
fresh  flowers  in  a  little  basket  filled  with  moist  sand 
to  prevent  their  withering.  The  invalid  had  not 
stirred,  and  Mrs.  Benton  thought  him  sleeping  ;  but 
just  as  she  was  putting  the  last  flowers  in  the  basket 
he  said : 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me  who  it  is  that  brings  those 
flowers  every  morning  ?  She  always  comes  before  I 
am  awake  and  I  cannot  see  her." 

"  How  do  you  know  then  that  it  is  a  woman  ? 


254  ''THEY    MET    BY    CHANCE." 

and  what  reason  have  you  for  believing  any  one  be 
side  myself  ever  enters  your  room  ?"  answered  the 
lady  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  the  soft  gray  eyes. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind  and  good  to  me  ever 
since  I  came  here,  and  I  am  very,  very  grateful  to 
you  for  what  you  have  done;  but  I  know  I  am  not  de 
ceived  in  thinking  that  there  is  another  that  some 
time  visits  my  room  ;  I  know  that  it  is  no  mere  fancy 
picture  that  floats  through  my  mind,  but  a  reality; 
and  it  is  not  imagination  that  leads  me  to  believe 
that  another  form  than  your  own  sometimes  stood  be 
side  my  bedside  when  I  was  so  sick  and  feverish  ;  I 
know  that  somebody  else  used  to  hold  the  medicine 
to  my  lips,  some  one  else  used  to  pass  two  little  white 
hands  over  my  head  when  the  fever  scorched  it  so 
terribly ;  and  though  I  have  never  seen  that  pretty 
vision  since  I  came  back  to  consciousness,  yet  if  ever 
I  do  see  her  I  will  know  her.  Already  I  love  her,  and 
if  she  will  not  let  me  see  her,  please  thank  her  for 
her  kindness  to  me." 

"  Well,  well !  You  are  an  imaginative  creature  ; 
here  you  are  trying  to  act  over  the  part  of  Waverly 
and  Rose  Bradwardine.  You  have  no  reason  for  be 
lieving  that  anyone  besides  myself  and  Jane  enters 
your  room — but  never  mind  ;  you  will  soon  be  well, 


"THEY  MET  BY  CHANCE."  255 

and  then  you  may  try  to  find  this  fairy  vision. 
Would  you  not  like  to  have  this  pretty  white  rose 
bud  ?  It  is  the  first  I  have  seen  of  the  kind  this  year, 
and  you  seem  so  fond  of  flowers  that  I  know  you 
would  like  it ;  but  it  is  almost  time  for  your  breakfast 
now,  and  I  am  going  to  prepare  it  for  you.  While 
I  am  gone  I  want  you  to  breathe  this  fresh  April  air  ; 
it  will  give  you  a  good  appetite." 

The  lady  rose  and  opened  the  windows,  thus  let 
ting  in  a  broad  belt  of  sunshine,  and  then  left  the 
room.  While  she  is  gone  I  will  tell  you  who  our  hero 
is  and  how  he  came  here.  His  name  is  Robert  Clif 
ton.  He  is  the  son  of  a  Southern  planter  whose  for 
tunes  are  on  the  ebb,  and  he  has  gone  into  the  world 
to  fight  the  battle  against  poverty.  He  had  worked 
hard  all  the  year,  and  his  health  suffered  so  from  con 
finement  that  at  last  he  was  compelled  to  take  a  holi 
day  ;  and,  as  his  purse  was  slim,  he  determined  to  go 
to  some  quiet,  out-of-the-way-place,  to  build  up  his 
wasted  strength,  and  had  chosen  this  little  cottage 
among  the  flowers  of  Florida.  Scarcely  had  he 
reached  his  place  of  destination  before  his  strength 
gave  way  entirely,  and  he  was  prostrated  by  a  terrible 
fever.  For  two  weeks  he  has  been  a  prisoner  within 


256  ''THEY  MET  BY  CHANCE." 

this  little  room ;  but  now  he  is  recovering,  and  his 
physician  says  he  will  soon  be  on  his  feet  again. 

He  mended  rapidly,  and  a  week  later  was  able  to 
sit  up,  and  even  to  walk  about  the  garden  ;  and  in  a 
short  time  into  the  fields,  growing  stronger  and  more 
robust  every  day.  He  had  never  given  up  his  belief 
in  the  existence  of  his  fair  nurse,  and  in  all  his 
rambles  he  was  ever  hoping  to  meet  her,  bat  had  been 
disappointed. 

One  day  while  on  a  hunt  he  chanced  to  take  a 
new  direction,  and  had  gone  much  farther  than  usual 
when  he  was  suddenly  brought  to  a  halt  by  a  fence 
which  he  supposed,  from  the  neatness  of  the  smooth- 
shaven  grasses  and  the  well-trimmed  trees,  enclosed 
an  old  fashioned  country  lawn  ;  but  he  wondered  that 
the  place  was  so  neatly  kept.  Suddenly  he  deter 
mined  to  find  out  what  it  was,  so  he  bounded  lightly 
over  the  fence,  and  pursued  his  way  among  the  tall 
beautiful  trees.  The  dark  green  leaves  of  the  water- 
oaks,  interspersed  with  magnolias  which  were  in  full 
bloom,  and  the  green  pines  that  stood  majestically 
beside  some  young  bays  that  had  not  as  yet  reached 
the  dignity  of  mature  years — all  combined  to  form  a 
very  pretty  and  fascinating  picture.  Robert  took  all 
this  in  and  seemed  to  enjoy  the  freedom  which  he  felt 


"THEY  MET  BY  CHANCE."  257 

here  in  this  grove  as  much  as  a  school  girl  of  fifteen 
would  have  done  after  a  confinement  within  the  brick 
walls  of  a  hoarding  school  for  a  year  ;  and  he  enjoyed 
it  from  a  higher  sense  of  understanding.  He  saw  in 
all  this  beauty  the  hand  of  a  divine  Workman,  and 
it  was  with  a  feeling  of  reverence  that  he  walked  on 
through  the  grove.  Directly  he  came  to  the  top  of 
the  hill  and  looked  down  into  a  pleasant  little  valley. 
Here  was  an  artificial  lake,  around  it  growing  the 
broad-leafed  water-lily  ;  and  across  it  was  stretched 
an  artistically-constructed  bridge.  A  woman,  with  a 
large  sun-bonnet  drawn  forward,  leaned  over  the  rail 
ing.  She  held  a  book  of  blue  and  gold  in  her  gloved 
hands,  and  gazed  down  into  the  water  with  a  far 
away,  dreamy  look  in  her  eyes.  She  seemed  very 
much  entertained  by  her  thoughts  ;  and  they  were 
evidently  very  pleasant  ones,  for  suddenly  she  threw 
back  the  bonnet  and  laughed  a  merry,  girlish  laugh, 
so  full  of  happiness  that  you  would  have  trusted  her 
immediately  ;  for  no  one  could  have  been  deceitful 
whose  laugh  gave  out  such  a  clear,  musical,  innocent 
ring  as  did  hers.  She  turned  to  pick  up  her  bonnet 
which  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  when  her  clear  blue 
eyes  met  those  of  Robert  Clifton  bent  eagerly  and  in 
quiringly  upon  her.  She  was  evidently  very  much 


258  "THEY  MET  BY  CHANCE." 

V 

confused,  for  a  rich  crimson  swept  over  the  transpar 
ent,  colorless  face,  and  she  hastily  hid  it  in  the 
friendly  shade  of  her  bonnet ;  but  the  confusion 
passed  away  almost  as  quickly  as  it  came,  and  she 
started  forward  saying  . 

u  I  was  not  expecting  to  see  you  this  morning, 
Mr. — ."  She  suddenly  stopped,  and  the  deep  tide 
again  swept  over  her  pretty  face. 

"  So  you  are  my  nurse — I  am  so  glad,  so  glad  to 
meet  you  !  And  now  you  must  tell  me  your  name.  I 
have  wanted  to  see  you,  and  tell  you  how  much  I 
thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  me  during  my  illness. 
I  never  saw  you  with  the  eyes  of  clear  consciousness, 
but  I  knew  you  just  now,  and  should  have  known  you 
had  I  seen  you  across  the  seas.  Again,  let  me  thank 
you." 

She  held  out  her  little  white  hand,  from  which 
she  had  removed  the  large,  loose  bleaching  gloves, 
and  said  : 

"  I  see  you  do  not  remember  your  old  playmate ; 
I  am  Kathie  Miller,  and  when  I  was  a  little  thing 
you  used  to  know  me  well  enough,  but  I  guess  now 
that  I  have  grown  up  I  must  have  changed,  and  per 
haps  I  do  not  look  like  the  little  red-headed  girl  you 
used  to  take  along  with  you  everywhere  you  went." 


"THEY  MET  BY  CHANCE."  259 

"Why,  indeed  is  it  Kathie?  I  should  never  have 
known  you  for  the  same  little  girl  I  used  to  think  so 
much  of — may  I  take  up  the  acquaintance  where  I 
left  off?" 

"  0  yes  ;  for  I  am  not  at  all  disposed  to  be  formal, 
and  papa  says  I  never  will  be  a  woman ;  but  I  used  to 
like  you,  and  I  don't  see  why  I  need  make  like  you 
are  a  stranger  now — only  may  be  I  will  not  like  you 
as  well  as  I  did  when  you  were  a  boy  ;  for  I  believe 
men  are  like  us — they  change  as  they  grow  older  ; 
though  I  don't  see  that  I  am  changed  in  anything, 
only  that  I  am  not  quite  so  ugly  as  I  used  to  be  !  My 
hair  is  ever  so  much  prettier,  and  even  I  cannot  call 
it  red  ;  and  then  those  great  ugly  freckles  are  not 
half  so  bad.  Do  you  not  think  I  am  improved  ?" 

Robert  smiled  at  the  young  lady's  quaint,  inno 
cent  speech,  though  he  could  riot  detect  a  particle  of 
vanity  in  her  tone,  and  he  answered  her  accordingly. 
He  did  not  flatter,  but  gave  his  opinion  of  her  per 
sonal  attractions  in  such  a  manner  that  she  felt  he 
meant  what  he  said.  And  now,  why  need  I  prolong 
the  story  ?  Is  it  necessary  to  tell  of  the  courtship 
and  final  result — of  the  bridal  dresses  and  of  Robert's 
success  in  life  ?  Of  how  he  rises  higher  and  higher 
in  the  world's  estimation,  ever  winning  laurels  ?  Of 


260  IN    EXTREMIS. 

how  Kathie  is  the  same  innocent,  trusting  woman ; 
and  how  completely  she  holds  the  hearts  of  her  hus 
band  and  children  in  her  keeping  ?  Her  work  in  life 
is  now  in  its  prime,  and  she  is  going  on  and  on. 
Never  a  sun  goes  down  that  it  has  not  witnessed 
some  good  done  by  this  noble  woman.  If  ever  she 
grows  tired,  she  has  but  to  retrospect.  Her  work  is 
nobly  done,  and  her 

"Finn  tread  on  life's  track 
Will  come  like  an  organ  note,  lofty  and  clear, 
To  lift  up  her  soul  and  her  spirits  to  cheer." 


IN  EXTREMIS 

CHAPTER    I. 

Somewhere  among  the  hills  just  outside  of  the 
noise  and  bustle  of  the  city,  is  nestled  a  little  farm, 
with  sloping  undulations  on  all  sides.  The  fields  are 
under  the  best  of  cultivation  ;  the  horses  are  thorough 
breds,  and  the  cows  are  the  gentlest  and  sleekest. 
There  are  no  fences  down,  no  gates  swinging  on 
broken  hinges.  Every  thing  about  this  little  home 
speaks  of  comfort  and  plenty. 

As  you  approach  the  pretty  Gothic  cottage  which 
shows  fitfully  through  the  trees,  you  cannot  repress 


IN    EXTREMIS.  261 

the  home  feeling  which  comes  over  you ;  the  birds 
carol  so  sweetly  in  the  great  elms  and  poplars  which 
meet  above  your  head  ;  in  the  distance  you  hear  the 
clear  call  of  the  plow  boy  and  the  deep  bay  of  the 
dog  just  beyond  the  hills.  As  you  approach  nearer 
the  house,  you  hear  the  hum  of  the  busy  bees,  as  they 
gather  honey  from  the  myriads  of  brilliant  flowers. 
Presently  with  other  familiar  sounds  is  blended  the 
fall  clear  tones  of  a  woman's  voice,  as  she  accom 
panies  herself  on  the  piano.  She  is  singing  the  dear 
old  song  which  for  years  has  made  a  part  of  our 
pleasant  recollections  of  the  old  home — a  song  which 
our  mothers  used  to  sing  in  a  sweet  tender  voice, 
which  perhaps  we  will  never  hear  again.  Suddenly 
the  song  ceases,  and  a  glad,  merry,  girlish  voice 
breaks  in  with : 

"0,  Rachel,  Rachel,  I  have  two  of  the  jolliest 
little  white  kids  you  ever  saw !  Papa  bought  them 
from  Ed  Holt,  and  I've  put  them  in  the  meadow. 
Now,  do  come  and  see  them.  They  are  just  too  cun 
ning  for  anything !" 

Rachel,  a  dark-eyed,  dark-haired  little  woman, 
somewhat  fleshy,  but  well  proportioned,  rose  from  the 
piano,  and  with  an  affectionate  smile,  followed  the 
girl  who,  too  eager  to  walk  quietly,  catches  her  com- 


262  IN    EXTREMIS. 

panion's  hand  and  hurries,  half  walking,  half  run 
ning  into  the  yard,  and  turning  to  the  left,  approaches 
a  field  of  blooming  clover,  where  the  cows  are  quietly 
browsing.  The  girl,  not  heeding  the  gate,  takes  a 
running  start,  leaps  over  the  low  fence  in  true  boyish 
fashion,  and  before  her  sister  has  entered  the  gate 
is  back  again,  with  the  little,  creamy,  Cashmere  kids 
in  her  arms,  and  a  proud,  exultant  look  in  her  gray 
eyes,  exclaiming  : 

"  Aren't  they  beauties,  Rachel  ?  Will  they  hurt 
the  flowers  ?  I  do  hope  not,  for  I  want  them  to  run 
in  the  yard — they  are  too  pretty  to  put  off  here  with 
the  calves,  and  then  they  might  get  hurt.  I'm  going 
to  name  one  of  them  Alma,  for  that  girl  papa  read  us 
about  yesterday,  who  was  so  white  and  pure  that  the 
people  worshipped  her  ;  and  the  other  I'll  call  Paul — 
0  no !  I'll  name  them  Paul  and  Virginia." 

The  momentous  question  of  a  name  being  settled, 
the  little  foster  mother  fell  to  caressing  her  pets.  Her 
long  straight  black  hair  which  was  a  ceaseless  tor 
ment  to  her,  fell  like  a  veil  over  the  wee  white  kids. 
There  was  something  indescribably  graceful  and 
charming  in  the  girl's  attitude  and  motions,  and  her 
elder  sister,  noticed  it,  with  an  expression  of  face  half 
smiling,  half  sad;  but  had  she  been  asked  the  cause  of 


IN    EXTREMIS.  263 

the  emotion  of  sorrow,  she  would  have  been  unable  to 
give  an  answer.  Some  things  there  are  which  impress 
us  strangely,  and  seemingly  without  cause,  and  yet  if 
we  would  trace  out  on  the  pages  of  the  after-life  the 
history  of  these  things,  we  would  find  that  the  im 
pressions  are  seldom  deceptive.  I  think  the  spirit 
penetrates  regions  unknown  to  reason,  and  grasps 
some  of  the  most  powerful  truths  of  our  lives  or  the 
lives  of  others. 

Rachel  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  this  family, 
and  had  been  a  mother  to  this  "Gypsie  lassie."  I 
think  she  scarcely  loved  her  own  little  ones  more 
than  this  motherless  sister,  whose  babyhood  she  had 
guarded — the  child  who  had  been  a  mother's  parting 
gift. 

But  the  sun  was  going  down,  and  Rachel  roused 
herself  from  the  reverie  into  which  she  had  fallen, 
and  called  her  sister  to  come  in  doors.  She  was  met 
on  the  threshhold  by  a  negro  girl  bearing  in  her  arms 
a  beautiful  boy  of  eighteen  months,  who  called  glee 
fully  to  his  mamma  to  take  him.  She  held  out  her 
arms,  and  the  little  fellow  sprang  into  them,  nestling 
his  curly  brown  head  on  her  neck.  A  door  opened  at 
the  end  of  the  long  wide  hall,  and  two  other  children 
came  in  with  happy  faces  and  sweet  childish  words, 


264  IN    EXTREMIS. 

to  kiss  and  love  the  dear,  pretty  little  mother  who 
never  turned  away  from  them,  but  joined  merrily  in 
their  sports,  forgetting  that  twenty-five  summers  had 
kissed  her  brow  with  loving  lips. 

Rachel  Audly  was  one  of  those  women  whose 
happiness  was  bound  up  in  the  sweet  home  joys  ; 
whose  life  demanded  no  wider  field,  no  higher  posi 
tion  than  the  blessed  one  of  wife  and  mother.  Her 
children  were  her  jewels,  and  treasured  beyond  the 
value  of  gold,  till  there  was  nothing  narrow  in  her 
nature.  Her  husband  spent  most  of  his  time  upon 
the  sea,  but  she  and  her  boys  never  failed  in  their 
prayers  to  remember  "  the  dear  one  whom  God  keepeth 
while  away.'1 

After  a  little  time  spent  in  gay  frolic  with  the 
children,  they  were  joined  by  their  grandfather,  whose 
brow  bore  the  finger-marks  of  sixty  winters.  His  ap 
pearance  on  the  long  piazza  was  a  signal  for  a  general 
stampede  in  his  direction,  the  children  leaving  their 
mother  and  rushing  to  him.  They  climbed  into  his 
lap,  one  perched  upon  his  shoulder,  another  on  his 
knee,  while  the  little  one  nestled  in  his  arms,  laugh 
ing  in  true  baby  fashion  at  the  sport  ;  the  mother 
standing  at  his  side,  with  one  hand  supporting  the 


IN    EXTREMIS.  265 

boy  on  his  shoulder,  the  other  laid  caressingly  about 
his  neck. 

"  Where  is  the  little  elf,  daughter  ?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  she  was  with  us  a  minute  ago. 
Perhaps  she  has  gone  to  superintend  the  arrange 
ments  she  ordered  to  be  made  for  the  accommodation 
of  her  pets." 

"  Bless  the  child  !  she  is  fond  of  that  class  of 
pets ;  so  was  her  mother,  and  she  is  growing  more 
and  more  like  her  every  day." 

"O,  here  she  comes  !"  cried  the  eldest  of  the  boys, 
springing  from  his  grandfather's  knee.  "  My  !  but 
aunt  Mamie,  what  are  they  ? — will  they  bite  ?" 

"  Will  'em  bite  ?"  echoed  the  second  boy,  taking 
a  position  beside  his  brother. 

"  No,  Robbie,  they  won't  bite,"  said  the  girl,  re 
plying  to  the  last  speaker.  "Don't  you  see  how  gentle 
they  are  ?  and  they  are  mine,  but  I'll  let  you  all 
come  and  see  them  when  they  get  to  keeping  house. 
They  will  move  into  their  house  to-morrow,  I  guess, 
and  we'll  have  a  party  then  ;  but  we  must  all  take 
them  something  to  begin  fcouse-keeping  on,  just  as 
they  did  when  Mr.  Roland  and  his  wife  moved  into 
the  new  parsonage." 


266  IN    EXTREMIS. 

"  I'll  take  my  little  stool  that  Hal  made  for  me," 
said  Henry,  the  oldest,  speaking  up  valiantly. 

"And  I'll  tate  'em  my — my  pop  dun,"  said 
Robbie,  whereat  Henry  said  scornfully  : 

"What  will  they  do  with  a  pop-gun  to  keep 
house  on  ?" 

"Den  I'll  tate  'em  my  'ittle  boodle,"  said  Robbie 
after  a  pause,  trying  to  think  of  something  he  could 
give,  and  his  bugle  being  his  dearest  treasure  next  to 
his  pop-gun. 

"0  that  won't  do  either,"  said  Henry. 

"Yes  it  will,  for  they  can  blow  it  for  a  dinner- 
horn,"  said  grandpa,  whereupon  Robbie  hid  his  happy 
face  in  his  mother's  lap,  and  Henry  for  an  instant 
looked  crestfallen. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  give  them  something, 
too,"  said  the  mother, — "  what  shall  it  be,  Elfie  ?" 

The  girl  looked  up  laughing,  and  said : 

"01  guess  you  had  better  give  them  a  stove. 
Papa  thinks  as  he  gave  the  housekeepers  that  he  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  house,  but  we  won't  let  him  off 
that  way — he  must  buy  collars  with  their  names  on 
them.  So  you  see,  you  stingy  old  man,  we  claim  some 
thing  more  from  you,"  and  she  gave  him  a  kiss. 


IN    EXTREMIS.  267 

"Well,  you  little  Elf,  but  I  was  waiting  for  an 
invitation  to  the  party." 

"  I  thought  you  disliked  formality,"  said  the  girl, 
aughing.  'Now  behold  how  consistent  is  man,"  and 
she  gathered  the  little  kids  in  her  arms  and  ran 
around  the  corner,  singing  as  she  went. 

The  father  smiled  fondly,  and  turning  to  Rachel 
said  : 

"  She's  a  bright  little  Elf,  isn't  she,  dear  ?" 

CHAPTER    II. 

Perhaps  I  have  introduced  Major  Weston's 
family  a  little  unceremoniously,  and  the  Major  in 
sists  that  he  hates  (?)  ceremony. 

Easton  Hill  has  been  for  many  years  one  of  the 
most  charming  homes  in  all  the  "  blue  grass  regions." 
Its  proprietor,  Major  Weston,  an  officer  in  the  late 
war,  is  a  gentleman  of  cultivation  and  refinement, 
and  though  by  no  means  wealthy,  yet  by  prudence 
and  good  judgment,  he  manages  to  live  in  a  charming 
style,  and  to  surround  his  family  with  many  of  the 
elegancies  of  life.  When  his  country  demanded  his 
services,  he  gave  up  quiet  life,  and  with  his  four  sons 
who  were  just  budding  into  manhood,  went  into  the 


268  IN    EXTREMIS. 

army.  Two  of  his  boys,  the  oldest  and  the  youngest, 
fell  in  battle,  one  at  Manasses,  and  the  other  at 
Gettysburg ;  and  when  the  struggle  was  over,  and  the 
father  returned,  he  left  them  sleeping  the  last  sleep  of 
brave  men  who  have  fought  and  died  for  their  coun 
try.  The  father  never  murmured  against  fate  for 
taking  them  from  him,  for  they  had  fallen  at  their 
post  of  duty,  and  he  could  ask  no  more.  That  he 
mourned  is  certain,  but  he  would  not  let  his  grief 
darken  the  days  that  remained  to  him,  but  took  up 
his  old  occupations,  and  put  his  farm  in  order,  as  in 
happier  days.  His  remaining  sons  married  and  went 
their  separate  ways  in  the  world,  building  up  happy 
homes  of  their  own.  His  daughters,  Rachel  and 
Naomi,  also  married,  but  continued  to  dwell  in  the 
home  of  their  father.  Rachel's  husband  was  a  sailor, 
and  when  he  was  away  it  seemed  best  that  she  should 
remain  in  the  old  home  which  could  ill  afford  to 
lose  her.  Naomi  married  a  civil  engineer  who  was 
also  necessarily  away  much  of  the  time ;  and  so  the 
father  kept  both  of  his  daughters,  and  the  little  chil 
dren  that  came  were  as  tokens  of  God's  love  to  the 
soldier's  heart,  and  he  lived  over  the  old  days  when,  a 
young  husband,  he  first  came  to  Eston ;  and  his 
grandchildren  were  to  him  as  his  own  little  ones. 


IN    EXTREMIS.  269 

And  then  he  had  Mary,  his  heart's  idol,  the  ewe  lamb 
of  the  flock,  his  last  born,  his  Joseph — for  of  them  all 
he  loved  this  little  one  best.  The  mother  had  been  a 
sacrifice  to  this  child,  for  when  the  wee  lassie  opened 
her  baby  eyes,  it  was  not  to  find  a  smiling  mother, 
but  a  weeping  father.  He  called  her  Mary — for  was 
she  not  born  out  of  bitterness  and  trouble  ?  Mary — 
bitter  ;  how  prophetic  !  How  significant  of  the  life 
which  the  future  held  in  store  for  her.  From  the 
hour  she  was  born  the  father  had  opened  his  heart  to 
her,  and  given  her  such  a  wealth  of  affection  as  few 
children  ever  get ;  but  there  was  no  jealousy  of  the 
household  pet,  the  little  queen  whose  demands  were 
never  disregarded  by  her  loving,  loyal  subjects. 
Even  her  brothers,  when,  with  their  families  they 
visited  the  old  home,  petted  and  caressed  her  as  no 
other  child  ever  was  petted  and  caressed.  They  tried 
to  spoil  her.  They  put  her  in  the  high  places,  and 
called  her  "  queen,"  but  for  all  this,  she  grew  up  as 
other  children — no  better,  no  worse  ;  but  simply  a 
child,  with  all  a  child's  impulses  and  excellences  of 

character  as  other  truthful  children  have. 

***** 

Four  years  passed  by  on  slippered  feet,  when  a 
discordant  note   broke   the  perfect   harmony   of  the 


270  IN    EXTREMIS. 

melody — one  link  dropped  out  of  the  chain.  Mr. 
Audley,  Rachel's  husband,  was  lost  at  sea,  and  for 
many  days  there  was  sorrow  and  weeping  in  the  old 
home.  And,  illustrative  of  the  old  paying  that 
troubles  never  come  singly,  just  as  the  bitterness  of 
grief  was  wearing  away,  a  terrible  fever  broke  out  in 
the  neighborhood;  Naomi  and  her  father  were  stricken 
down,  and  in  less  than  one  week,  having  finished  their 
work  on  earth,  they  were  laid  to  rest.  The  father  left 
behind  him  the  record  of  a  well  spent  life.  The 
daughter  had  scarcely  laid  aside  girlhood's  joys  for 
womanhood's  duties,  and  gathered  a  few  golden 
sheaves,  when  the  willing  hands  were  released,  and 
the  spirit  called  home.  It  was  bitter,  very  bitter,  but 
the  cup  was  not  yet  empty.  Next,  Naomi's  beautiful 
twins  were  stricken  down  and  died,  and  then  Rachel's 
eldest  boy.  The  clouds  darkened  the  whole  horizon, 
and  the  "  days  were  dark  and  dreary."  Naomi  left 
one  child,  her  eldest,  a  golden-haired,  bright-eyed 
girl,  whose  beauty  had  always  been  something  re 
markable  ;  and  Mary,  whose  heart  was  bursting  with 
its  weight  of  woe,  took  the  little  Ethel  to  her  bosom 
with  eager  love.  The  days  never  hurried  now,  but 
dragged  by  on  lagging  feet — time  had  grown  tired  of 
haste.  Rachel,  widowed,  and  deprived  of  one  of  her 


IN    EXTREMIS.  271 

children,  seemed  a  weary,  aged  woman.  Her  pale 
face  seldom  kindled  up  with  smiles  now,  for  her  heart 
was  crushed,  broken.  Naomi's  husband  went  abroad 
— too  weary  to  stay  at  home  and  be  forever  mocked 
by  the  joys  that  "were  dead,"  he  became  a  wanderer 
in  a  strange  land.  So  Rachel  and  Mary,  with  the 
children  that  were  spared,  remained  in  the  old  home. 
But  even  the  little  ones  seemed  to  have  grown  grave, 
for  they  seldom  laughed  as  children  are  wont  to  laugh; 
and  in  vain  they  watched  the  faces  of  their  aunt  and 
mother  for  smiles,  or  other  tokens  of  returning  happi 
ness.  Happiness !  O  what  a  mockery  in  the  mere 
word  !  Can  happiness  come  to  broken  hearts  ?  Can 
joy  shine  up  through  the  deep  grave  of  buried  love  ? 
When  clouds  are  dark,  do  we  think  of  silver  linings 
or  golden  lights  ?  If  it  were  so,  hope  would  drive 
away  sorrow,  and  silence  despair;  but  we  never  dream 
of  the  golden  light  till  we  catch  a  faint  glint  of  its 
brightness. 

The  deep  sea  of  sorrow  overwhelmed  Rachel,  and 
every  note  of  joy  but  added  to  her  pain.  The  words 
of  this  sweet  old  song  sank  deep  into  her  heart : 

"  When  swallows  build,  and  leaves  break  forth, 

My  old  sorrow  wakes  and  cries; 
For  I  know  there  is  dawn  in  the  far,  far  north. 
And  the  scarlet  sun  doth  rise; 


272  IN    EXTREMIS. 


Like  a  scarlet  fleece  the  suow-field  spreads 

And  the  icy  founts  run  free, 
And  the  bergs  begin  to  bow  their  heads 

And  plunge  and  sail  in  the  sea. 

Oh!  my  lost  love,  and  my  own,  own  love, 

And  my  love  that  loved  me  so; 
Is  there  never  a  chink  in  the  world  above 

Where  they  listen  for  words  from  below? 
Nay,  I  spoke  once  and  I  grieved  thee  sore — 

I  remember  all  that  I  said; 
And  Now  thou  wilt  hear  me  no  more,  no  more 

Till  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

We  shall  walk  no  more  through  the  sodden  plain, 

With  the  faded  bents  o'ers-pread; 
We  shall  stand  no  more  by  the  seething  main. 

While  the  dark  wreck  drives  o'erhead; 
We  shall  part  no  more  in  the  wind  and  rain, 

Where  our  last  farewell  was  said; 
But  perhaps  I  shall  meet  thee  and  know  thee  again 

When  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead." 


CHAPTER   III. 
CLOUDS. 

"  And  naught  can  bring  from  the  happy  past, 

When  light  and  love  are  fled, 
Tho'  the  walls  of  the  dear  old  home  may  last, 
But  memories  of  the  dead." 

The  wind  blew  lightly  across  the  room,  fluttering 
the  snowy  curtains,  and  bringing  in  sweet  odors  from 


IN    EXTREMIS.  273 

» 

the  wild,  luxurious  garden  which  lay  half  buried  be 
hind  a  tangled  hedge  of  Cherokee  rose.  This  old 
garden  had  once  been  well  trimmed,  well  tended,  and 
showed  that  busy,  tasteful  hands  had  cared  for  it; 
but  now,  ah  !  now,  it  is  a  wild  waste  of  overgrown 
flowers,  and  not  a  "breath  of  the  time  that  had 
been,"  hovered  about  it ;  for  the  hands  that  tended  it 
are  folded,  the  hearts  that  loved  it  are  cold,  and  the 
days  that  were  bright  with  their  presence,  are  gone 
forever.  But  the  wind  takes  no  heed  of  all  this,  as  it 
sweeps  the  petals  of  the  roses  down,  and  sends  their 
breath,  like  sweet  incense,  into  the  old  rooms ;  it  takes 
no  heed  that  it  is  stirring  old  memories,  as  it  wakes  the 
sleeping  flowers  ;  it  takes  no  heed  that  to  one  patient, 
suffering  heart,  it  is  bringing  back  the  memory  of  "  a 
day  that  is  dead" — that  the  breath  of  roses,  honey 
suckles  and  violets,  is  filling  the  chambers  of  Memory 
with  sad,  tender  regrets. 

A  pale,  black-robed  figure  sits  patiently  stitching 
a  long,  tiresome  seam,  trying  to  still  the  tumult  which 
the  wind  and  flowers  have  raised ;  never  pausing  to 
let  the  tears  fall,  but  bravely  pressing  them  back.  A 
sudden  gust  of  the  frolicsome  wind  comes  through  the 
open  window,  lifts  her  work  to  her  face,  sweeps  a 
paper  from  the  table,  and  overturns  her  basket.  Then 


274  IN    EXTREMIS. 

she  clasps  her  slender,  nervous  hands,  closes  her  eyes, 
and  gives  way  to  the  spell  which  the  wind  has 
wrought.  She  goes  back  over  the  bright,  bright  past, 
and  revels  in  its  beauty  and  sunshine.  Again  she  is 
a  child,  running  wild  and  untrammeled,  over  the 
great  fields  of  wheat,  tossing  the  yellow  plumes  right 
and  left,  and  watching  the  shy  partridges  as  they  fly 
away  at  the  sound  of  her  merry  shouts.  Again,  hat. 
less,  and  with  flying  hair,  she  is  mounted  on  her 
beautiful,  black  Lodi,  and  careering  over  the  country, 
winning  the  disapprobation  of  the  staid,  prudish  old 
women,  and  the  hearty  cheers  and  warm  friendship 
of  the  boys  and  men.  Anon,  she  is  perched  on  a  limb 
of  the  old  horseapple  tree,  back  of  the  garden,  with  a 
book  in  her  hand,  half-reading,  half-dreaming,  with 
the  whisper  of  leaves  in  her  ear.  Again  her  thoughts 
turn  to  later  years,  when  she  had  grown  into  a  tall, 
slight  girl,  and  merry  voices  filled  the  now  quiet  home; 
when  childish  feet  danced  in  and  out,  and  music  and 
laughter  were  heard  all  the  day.  But  now — 0  what  a 
change  !  The  youth  and  joy  are  gone — the  childish 
voices  are  hushed  forever — the  tender,  loving  hands 
once  so  strong  and  active,  are  at  rest.  Good-bye, 
sweet,  sunny  days  !  Good-bye,  childhood  and  hope  ! 
Ye  are  but  a  dream  that  is  past — a  rose  that  has  been 


IN    EXTREMIS.  275 

gathered.  The  winds  cannot  stir  the  past  into  life, 
try  they  ever  so  hard  ;  they  can  only  waken  memory 
and  regret.  Ah  !  well,  perhaps  it  is  better  so. 

"  After  the  shower,  the  tranquil  sun; 
Silver  stars  when  the  day  is  done; 
After  the  snow,  tlie  emerald  leaves; 
After  the  harvest,  golden  sheaves. 


"  After  the  burden,  the  blissful  meed; 
After  the  furrow,  waking  seed; 
After  the  flight,  the  downy  nest; 
Over  the  shadowy  river,  rest." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

SUNSHINE . 

Far  out  in  the  east  a  crimson  streak  of  light 
shoots  across  the  leaden  horizon,  a  pale  flush  of  pink 
spreads  gradually  over  sky  ;  the  birds  awaken  from 
their  night  of  silence,  and  twitter  and  chirp  as  they 
flit  among  the  dew-laden  branches.  Now  the  pink 
flush  deepens,  the  great  round  ball  of  fire  comes  up 
and  brightens  the  whole  earth,  the  twitter  of  birds 
swells  into  song.  The  night  of  restless  dreams  and 
boding  fancies  is  past  ;  its  sorrows  are  buried  in  the 
mists  of  receding  time,  or  only  stand  as  sign-posts 


276  IN    EXTREMIS. 

along  the  road  of  yesterday,  and  the  glad  new  day  is 
born. 

The  sorrows  of  the  past,  though  buried,  are  not 
forgotten  ;  but  they  may  be  covered  over  with  sweet 
fresh  flowers,  whose  fragrance  smothers  the  scent  of 
the  wormwood  and  gall.  Perhaps  sometime  when  the 

flowers  are  faded,  and  turned  to  ashes,  the  old  sorrows 

. 
may  revive  to  mock  with  their  skeleton  arms  and 

ghostly  presence ;  but  little  reck  we  of  future  trouble, 
if  the  sky  of  the  present  is  fair.  Mary  Weston  sees 
no  shadows  before  her  now — they  all  lie  in  the  past. 
It  all  seems  a  hideous  dream,  and  yet  a  real  one. 
She  knows  that  her  heart  contains  many  buried 
hopes ;  she  knows  that  her  life  has  been  rough  and 
rugged,  and  beset  with  thorns.  But  the  winds  of 
time  have  swept  across  the  graves  of  her  buried 
hopes,  and  covered  them  with  leaves  amid  which  the 
grass  is  springing.  They  have  ceased  to  be  dark 
hillocks  of  unsightly  clay,  but  have  become  fair 
mounds  of  verdure  and  blossom.  To  her,  each  hillock 
represents  an  angel  in  the  skies  ;  and  there  is  no 
longer  pain  in  the  thought  that  her  loved  ones  are 
gone,  for  they  have  gained  immortality.  There  is  no 
pain  in  the  thought  that  for  them  life's  trials  are 
over,  but  rather,  it  seems  well  that  God  has  called 


IN    EXTREMIS.  277 

them  home.  Other  griefs  have  come  to  her  since  the 
first  wave  of  sorrow  swept  over  her  soul,  other  lives 
been  gathered  unto  God,  other  links  added  to  her 
golden  chain  of  angel  loves.  Rachel  has  gone  to 
meet  her  husband  and  children.  She  lingered  for  a 
time  after  they  were  gone,  but  homesickness  for  the 
little  ones  drew  her  away.  She  sighed  : 

"  I  pray  you  what  is  the  nest  to  me — 

My  empty  nest? 

And  what  is  the  shore  where  I  stood  to  see 
My  boat  sail  down  to  the  west? 

"  Can  I  call  this  home  where  I  anchor  yet, 

Tho'  my  goodman  hence  hath  sailed? 
Can  I  call  this  home  where  my  nest  is  set, 
Now  all  its  hope  has  failed? 

"  Nay!  bat  the  port  where  my  sailor  went — 

The  land  where  my  nestlings  be; 
There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughts  are  sent — 
The  only  home  for  me." 

And  so  she  drifted  out  with  the  tide,  and  now 
her  boat  is  anchored  in  the  heavenly  port. 

Mary  has  struggled  with  the  world — has  gone 
into  its  highways  and  byways  of  trouble,  but  God 
has  helped  her.  He  loves  His  little  ones,  while  He 
chastens  them,  and  when  the  waves  beat  high,  He  is 
ever  at  the  helm. 


278  IN    EXTREMIS. 

When  Mary  Western's  life  had  grown  almost 
barren  of  purpose,  when  the  hopes  of  her  girlhood 
had  perished,  God  sent  her  friends  and  she  began  to 
form  new  plans  for  her  life.  What  a  blessing  it  is 
that  we  are  endowed  with  an  unlimited  capacity  for 
loving.  When  we  bury  one  love,  another  rises,  if  not 
to  fill  the  vacant  place,  at  least  to  give  interest  and 
purpose  to  life. 

After  a  time  a  lover  came  to  woo  the  quiet,  gentle 
woman,  who  was  devoting  her  life  to  the  suffering  and 
sorrowing.  His  life,  like  hers,  had  been  touched  with 
sorrow  and  disappointment,  and  he  knew  how  to  feel 
for  her  loneliness.  They  walked  along  the  shaded 
lanes  together,  as  they  went  to  minister  to  the  sick, 
he  as  physician,  and  she  as  sympathiser  and  worker. 
She  saw  him,  gentle,  kind,  thoughtful.  He  saw  her 
sweet,  womanly,  Christ-like,  moved  by  a  spirit  of 
faith  and  love  that  was  inimitable,  and  his  heart  went 
out  to  her  ;  and  almost  before  she  knew  it,  she  once 
more  began  to  take  some  pleasure  in  life.  Music 
again  found  its  way  to  her  soul,  and  floated  out  in 
her  sweet,  rippling,  melodious  voice.  The  days  no 
longer  dragged,  but  seemed  all  too  short  for  her 
happiness.  Love  was  stirring  the  depths  of  her  silent 
heart  never  to  be  silent  again.  The  love  that  came  to 


IN    EXTREMIS. 

her  was  involuntary.  God  sent  it,  and  there  were  no 
doubts  and  fears  to  disturb  her  when  she  gave  her 
heart  and  hand  into  the  keeping  of  Robert  Leighton. 

CHAPTER  v. 

Once  more  we  turn  to  the  early  home  of  Mary 
Weston.  The  old  house  has  undergone  many  changes, 
and  yet  it  is  recognizable  as  the  beautiful  home  we 
first  looked  upon  years  ago,  when  Mary  was  a  happy, 
light-hearted  girl.  Time  has  only  added  beauty  to 
the  old  place,  and  to  see  it  now  you  would  scarcely 
dream  that  sorrow  had  ever  darkened  the  doors  of 
this  Arcadian  home.  Beautiful  roses  clamber  over 
the  lattice  and  creep  in  at  the  open  windows.  The 
whole  yard  is  one  mass  of  color  and  fragrance.  From 
the  piazza,  which  overlooks  the  orchard,  you  can  see 
men  and  boys  at  work  loading  wagons,  with  the  gold 
and  red  apples,  while  childish  figures  run  here  and 
there  under  the  trees  where  the  apples  are  thickest, 
shouting  with  merriment  when  one  strikes  them  on 
the  head,  and  each  trying  to  see  who  will  catch  the 
most  while  they  fall.  Presently  a  sweetfaced  woman, 
with  a  broad-brim  straw  hat  on  her  head,  comes  out 
of  the  door  leading  to  the  orchard.  Happiness  and 
contentment  light  up  her  face,  and  sweet,  mother-love 


280  IN   EXTREMIS. 

sparkles  in  her  eyes.  When  the  children  see  her  they 
dart  away  from  the  trees  to  some  secret  hiding  place, 
and  taking  out  a  nice  apple  that  had  been  saved  for 
"  mamma,"  they  run  to  meet  her,  laughing  joyously. 
The  mother  stands  with  outstretched  arms  to  catch 
them  as  they  come. 

"See,  mamma,  see  the  nice  apples  we  have  saved 
for  you,"  they  exclaim  in  a  breath. 

"Yes,  my  darlings,  but  haven't  you  saved  any 
for  papa  ?" 

"  0,  you  must  save  some  for  him,  for  we  couldn't 
tell  which  to  give  the  nicest  to,  for  we  love  you  both 
alike." 

The  mother  stooped  and  kissed  them.  Just  then, 
a  grave,  yet  pleasant  looking  man  joins  the  group; 
but  when  the  children  begin  to  pelt  him  with  apples, 
his  face  lights  up  with  amusement  and  he  enters  into 
their  sports  with  a  will.  Presently  the  children  re 
turn  to  the  wagons,  and  as  her  eyes  follow  them,  the 
mother  takes  her  husband's  hand  and  says  : 

"  It  is  a  blessing  to  live,  isn't  it,  Robert  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  but  a  greater  blessing  to  love,"  he 
says,  stooping  to  kiss  the  sweet  mouth. 

These  two  have  just  reached  the  meridian  of  life, 
and  the  sorrows  of  their  early  years  lie  far  behind 


TO-MORROW.  281 

them.  Mary  Leighton  is  happier  in  her  womanhood, 
than  Mary  Weston  was  in  her  girlhood.  The  seed 
time  was  dreary  and  unpromising  but  the  harvest- 
time  is  rich  with  golden  fruits. 

There  are  blessings  in  store  for  all  if  they  will  be 
patient  and  wait.  A  bow  of  promise  spans  every  sky, 
and  hope  may  illume  every  heart.  The  road  of  life 
may  be  rugged,  and  the  clouds  dark,  but  there  is 
always  the  hope  of  a  "sweet  bye  and  bye." 


TO-MORROW. 

"To-morrow  is  a  satire  on  to-day,  and  shows  its  weakness." 

— [YOUNG. 

' '  What  name  doth  joy  most  borrow 
When  life  is  fair? 

To-morrow. 

What  name  does  fit  best  sorrow, 
In  young  despair? 

To-morrow." 

— [GEORGE  ELIOT  . 

The  clouds  have  gathered  thick  and  dark  over 
the  heavens,  the  sunlight  is  dimmed,  and  no  strug 
gling  ray  of  light  comes  through ;  the  clouds  are  so 
dense  that  they  have  dimmed  all  the  glory  of  the 
sunlight — have  hushed  all  the  sweetness  of  song,  and 


282  TO-MORROW. 

life  is  sad .  All  day  you  watch  the  clouds  for  one  rift 
in  the  darkness ;  for  one  stray  beam  of  light ;  for  one 
bright  spot  to  build  hope  upon  ;  but  you  see  no  light, 
and  the  darkness  is  deeper,  and  you  console  yourself 
with  the  thought  that  there  is  a  silver  lining,  and  go 
to  sleep  dreaming  of — to-morrow.  To-morrow  it  will 
surely  be  brighter.  The  sun  cannot  always  remain 
behind  the  clouds.  But  to-morrow  dawns,  and  fades 
out,  and  happiness  stands  afar  off;  but  there  will  be 
another  to-morrow,  and  again  you  go  to  sleep  dream 
ing  of  the  day  that  is  coming. 

God  never  gave  a  mortal  more  than  he  could 
bear,  and  if  you  are  not  a  coward,  you  will  not  give 
up,  but  work.  Some  one  has  wisely  said  that  "  action 
is  man's  salvation,"  and  he  who  mopes,  and  gives 
himself  up  to  vain  hopes  of  the  to-morrow,  cannot  be 
happy.  To-morrow  is  one  of  the  beautiful  unattain- 
ables,  and  makes  us  ever  hopeful ;  but  to-day  is  with 
us,  and  "  time  runs  waste,"  let  the  watchword  be.  Act 
in  the  living  present,  and  when  to-morrow  comes,  the 
measure  of  good  deeds  will  be  heaped  up  and  over 
flowing. 

"  Make  the  path  thy  feet  shall  press 

Smooth  for  those  who  follow, 
That  their  toilsome  feet  may  press 
Every  hill  and  hollow." 


TO-MORROW.  283 

The  actors  of  to-day  will  leave  their  impress 
upon  the  world ;  and  though  they  do  not  live  to  see 
the  to-morrow,  their  deeds  and  words  will.  Pope,  in 
beautifying  his  grounds,  had  not  merely  the  gratifica 
tion  of  his  own  tastes  in  view.  He  wrote  to  a  friend  : 
"  They  will  indeed  live  after  me,  but  I  am  pleased  to 
think  my  trees  will  afford  fruit  and  shade  to  others 
when  I  shall  want  them  no  more." 

Fill  up  life's  to-day  with  actions  which  will  ring 
clear  of  reproach  in  the  future.  Bring  fruit  of  perfect 
mould  and  without  blemish,  as  your  offerings,  and 
God  will  insure  the  reward.  If  your  life  is  a  wreck, 
who  made  it  so  ?  God  ? 

We  read  of  "  might  have  beens,"  of  "  hopes  lost," 
of  opposing  "  fates,"  and  a  great  deal  of  nonsensical 
rubbish  ;  but  let  fate  and  circumstances  be  what  they 
may,  there  is  always  an  alternative,  and  he  who  gives 
up  at  the  first  touch  of  adversity,  will  not  have  known 
how  to  appreciate  prosperity.  If  fortune  frowns  on 
one  side,  turn  somewhere  else.  The  road  for  your  feet 
is  somewhere — find  it ;  and  leave  an  influence  that 
will  tell  on — To-morrow. 


284  BEAUTIFUL   VALLEY. 


BEAUTIFUL  VALLEY. 

In  the  Beautiful  Valley,  is  a  garden  in  which  are 
all  of  nature's  loveliest  and  choicest  fruits  and  flowers. 
The  sun  shines  down  on  this  garden  with  a  softer 
light  than  it  does  elsewhere,  or  so  it  seems  to  those 
outside,  for  it  is  never  too  warm — and  never  too  cold  ; 
the  dews  are  heavier  and  the  rain  milder  than  any 
where  else  in  the  world ;  the  streams  are  clear  and 
ripple  over  pebbly  bottoms  with  soft  murmurs;  the 
sea,  as  it  lashes  the  shore  at  the  foot  of  the  garden, 
sends  forth  music  like  that  of  the  Eolian  harp.  u  And 
no  storms  ever  beat  on  that  beautiful  shore  in  the 
far  away  home  of  the  blest ;"  the  fishes  leap  from  the 
clear  blue  sea  and  are  not  afraid  ;  the  nightingale 
chants  the  sweet  melodies.  The  garden  is  lighted  by 
the  moon  and  stars,  the  clouds  are  never  dark,  the  sky 
never  sad,  the  earth  never  unproductive,  and  the  in 
habitants  are  always  lighthearted  and  glad  ;  there  are 
no  old,  or  ugly,  or  sick,  or  lame,  or  blind  to  be  found 
in  this  garden — this  Land  of  the  Beautiful.  The 
government  is  the  best,  and  all  the  people  are  rich 
and  good.  « 

The  people  outside,  ever  look  toward  this  garden 


BEAUTIFUL    VALLEY.  285 

with  envious,  longing  hearts  ;  they  curse  their  own 
land — its  meagerness  and  poverty ;  they  sigh  for  the 
richness  and  warmth  of  the  beautiful  garden.  They 
go  about  their  work  with  sullen  and  angry  brows. 
The  clouds  hang  over  them,  dark  and  heavy,  or  the 
sun  is  so  hot  and  parching  that  they  wish  they  might 
forget  their  existence,  if  they  cannot  get  into  this 
garden.  They  neglect  to  plant  flowers  and  fruits  ; 
they  do  not  feed  their  birds,  and  they  fly  from  their 
homes.  When  the  rain  falls  they  do  not  water  their 
fields  ;  when  the  floods  come  they  do  not  drain  their 
lands,  and  so  they  have  poor  harvests.  They  have 
no  beautiful  homes  to  go  to  when  "  The  day  is  done." 
They  say,  "  Ours  is  a  poverty-stricken  land,  and  God 
has  forsaken  us — we  have  nothing  to  live  for,  let  us 
die ; "  and  they  grow  old  before  the  noonday,  and  great 
lines  of  care  gather  on  their  brows.  They  are  poor, 
neglectful,  unloving,  and  their  life  is  merely  existence. 
They  have  no  hope,  no  bright  dreams,  no  ambition. 
They  say,  "  We  are  not  of  the  blessed  few,  and  there 
is  no  good  in  these  things.  If  life  has  joys  for  us, 
they  will  come  without  our  exertions,  so — let  us  rest!" 
and  they  lie  idle  in  the  shade  of  the  trees,  too  hope 
less  to  dream,  tod-  envious  to  see  the  lovely  tints  in 
their  own  sky,  or  hear  the  sweet  murmur  of  the 


286  '         BURIED    DREAMS. 

waters,  or  note  the  beautiful  verdure  of  their  forest. 
They  do  not  see  that  the  dwellers  in  the  Beautiful 
Valley  are  workers.  They  do  not  know  that  they  are 
happy  because  they 

"  Gather  up  the  sunshine 

Lying  all  along  their  path ; 
And  keep  the  wheat  and  roses, 
Casting  out  the  thorns  and  chaff." 

They  do  not  notice  that  they  take  each  rest  as 
they  journey  life's  road,  and  drink  from  each  cooling 
fountain,  and  that  if  they  see  shadows  lying  in  the 
valley  around  them,  they  look  up  and  see  sunshine 
gilding  the  tops  of  the  mountains. 


BURIED  DREAMS. 

"  Hark!  A  voice  from  the  far-away; — 
'  Listen  and  learn,'  it  seems  to  say, 
'All  to-morrow  shall  be  as  to-day, 
The  cord  is  frayed,  and  the  source  is  dry, 
The  link  must  break,  and  the  lamp  must  die, 
Good-bye,  Hope,  good-bye,  good-bye!'" 

Good-bye,  Hope !  Ah,  no,  we  can  never  say 
good-bye,  Hope.  We  cannot  bid  0  go  away  forever. 
We  have  listened  and  learned,  and  there  comes  this 


BURTED    DREAMS.  287 

message  from  the  ages  that  are  past, — "Hope  on, 
hope  ever." 

As  I  sit  here,  the  shadows  creep  up  from  the 
misty  gulf  and  lie  thick  around  me.  The  scenes  that 
were  bright  this  morning  grow  faint  and  fainter.  I 
can  scarcely  see  the  white  cliff  that  rises  just  a  little 
way  down  the  beach,  and  yet  it  is  quite  as  large  as  it 
was  this  morning ;  only  the  fogs  of  the  evening  en 
velop  it  now.  And  shall  I  think,  because  the  lights 
are  dim,  that  they  will  always  remain  so  ?  Ah  no  ! 
"  Weeping  may  endure  for  a  night,  but  joy  cometh  in 
the  morning."  And  so,  bright- winged  Hope,  be  up 
and  011  your  mission.  Thick  shadows  lie  all  along 
our  path,  but  there  is  always  a  clearing  ahead. 

We  dream  one  bright  dream — it  fades,  and  dies, 
leaving  only  the  ashes  behind  ;  but  soon  another 
comes  ;  the  brightness  is  renewed,  the  fire  lighted 
again.  Our  hearts  are  miniature  worlds.  In  the  busy, 
active  world,  a  great  man,  a  genius,  flashes  up,  kin 
dles  the  universe  with  the  enthusiastic  praise  of 
his  powers,  is  lauded  for  his  brief  hour — then  comes 
death,  oblivion ;  he  drops  out  of  the  grand  system  of 
mental  planets,  and  is  lost  to  the  present,  and  the 
future  knows  him  not.  So  with  our  hearts.  One 
grand  chain  of  thoughts,  plans  and  ideas,  fill  them  to- 


288  BURIED    DREAMS. 

day ;  to-morrow  they  have  vanished,  and  we  take  up 
new  ones. 

Sometimes  these  old  dreams  lie  buried  for  years 
among  the  debris  of  driftwood,  mouldering  to  ashes, 
and  we  heed  them  not,  until  some  day  a  little  inci 
dent,  a  leaf  from  an  old  book,  a  line  from  a  letter, 
yellow  with  age,  a  bunch  of  withered  flowers,  a  snatch 
from  an  old  song,  or  the  scent  of  a  flower,  recalls 
these  dreams  of  long  ago.  We  gather  up  the  ashes, 
and  perhaps  find  a  faint  spark  of  vitality,  a  feeble 
glow  of  warmth,  and  we  live  over  again  the  "  auld 
lang  syne."  We  revel  again  in  our  young  ambitions, 
recall  the  bright  hopes  that  lent  them  color,  and  see 
our  mansions  in  the  air  rising  high  as  of  yore,  and 
yet — we  know  they  are  only  dreams : 

"  Alack!  they  are  dead,  and  their  grace  has  fled, 
Forever  and  evermore." 

It  may  be  that  our  thoughts  wander  back  to  the 
early  days  of  our  sweet  love  dreams.  We  recall  the 
old  school  house,  and  the  "  one  "  for  whom  our  heart 
beat  fastest;  and,  for  a  moment,  we  wonder  if  we  ever 
have  loved  any  one  else  as  well  as  that  one,  "  first 
love." 

Then  we  recall  another  dream  which  came  later  ; 
remember  the  sweet  words  which  fell  from  other  lips, 


BURIED    DREAMS.  289 

and  we  feel  that  this  was  our  first  real  love ;  aye,  we 
let  some  tears  fall  as  we  close  down  the  coffin  lid  on 
these  old  dreams  ;  for  though  years  have  passed,  and 
the  old  loves  are  married  and  scattered,  yet,  even  yet, 
they  have  power  to  stir  the  deep  well  of  our  affec 
tions.  These  dreams  are  the  offspring  of  our  heart 
and  brain,  and  we  come  across  one  as  we  travel  along 
the  highways  of  life;  it  touches  us,  and  we  rebuke 
ourselves  for  our  fickleness  and  utter  weakness  of 
purpose  We  wonder  how  we  could  have  put  aside 
all  those  heart-thrills ;  how  we  could  have  lived  such 
recklessly  careless  lives  ;  and  for  one  moment  we  be 
lieve  that  life's  joys  all  lie  behind  us,  that  our  hearts 
can  only  find  a  ceaseless  echo  of  pain,  and  we  repeat 
sadly  : 

"  I've  done  with  all  beneath  the  stars, 

0  world  so  vainly  fleeting; 
How  long  against  Time's  ruthless  bars 

Have  the  soul's  wings  been  beating! 
Till  even  the  soul  but  yearns  for  sleep, 

Calm  rest,  for  fevered  riot, 
The  sacred  sleep,  the  shadows  deep 

Of  death's  majestic  quiet." 

But  thank  God,  these  troubled  dreams  do  not 
come  often,  and  they  soon  fly  away  and  hide  them 
selves  again.  They  are  our  shadowy  sorrows,  and 


290  BURIED    DREAMS. 

come,  like  ghosts,  in  the  twilight,  and  flee  in  the  sun 
light. 

"  Perhaps  from  the  loss  of  all  we  may  learn 

The  song  which  the  seraph  sings — 
A  grand  and  glorious  psalrn — 

That  will  tremble  and  rise,  and  rise  and  thrill, 
And  fill  our  breast  with  its  grateful  rest, 

And  its  lonely  yearnings  still." 

When  the  memory  of  these  old  dreams  is  stilled, 
we  come  back  to  our  Present.  Yes,  it  is  OURS — we 
hold  its  joys  in  our  grasp.  The  Past  belongs  to 
Memory,  to  God,  and  the  grave.  The  Present  belongs 
to  us.  The  old  dreams  were  sweet,  but  the  dreams  of 
to-day  are  brighter — the  living  loves  of  to-day  are 
sweeter  than  the  dead  loves — the  ghosts  of  the  Past. 

"  Sorrow  is  shadow  to  life,  moving  where  life  doth  move, 
Not  to  be  laid  aside,  until  we  lay  living  aside." 

If  sorrow  is  shadow-life,  joy  is  sunshine  ;  they 
are  equal,  and  we  will  never  be  done  with  sunlight 
and  shadow  until  we  glide  into  "That  change  which 
never  changes." 


AN    IDYL.  291 

AN  IDYL. 

PART  FIRST. 

A  maiden  sat  in  the  sunshine  weaving  a  beautiful 
fabric  in  Fancy's  golden  loom — a  fabric  shot  with 
silver  and  sprinkled  with  jewels,  and  as  rich  as  ever 
enveloped  the  form  of  royalty  in  its  costly  folds. 
What  she  wove  in  imagination  was  a  wondrous  web 
of  happiness,  of  good  works,  of  noble  achievements  ; 
a  web  which  God's  hand  must  touch  before  human 
weaver  could  call  it  perfect.  She  was  painting  her 
future  destiny  on  the  swift  movements  of  the  shuttle 
as  it  shot  from  side  to  side,  cutting  the  fabric  into 
richest  garments  of  hope,  and  love,  and  peace,  and 
happiness.  The  roses  blooming  at  her  feet  sent  up 
their  fragrance,  as  the  light  winds  stirred  their  slum 
brous  leaves.  But  a  stronger  puff  of  the  same  winds 
tore  the  petals  from  their  stems,  and  they  lay  scat 
tered  and  withered  at  her  feet. 

A  step  came  up  the  garden  walk,  and  the  dream 
fled  away  to  be  taken  up  at  some  other  time.  She 
looked  shyly  up — her  lover  stood  at  her  side.  Youth 
ful  dimples  spread  themselves  over  the  sweet  young 
face,  and  a  happy  light  gleamed  in  the  dreaming  eyes. 


292  AN    IDYL. 

The  dreams  of  the  future  were  forgotten  in  the  bliss 
of  the  present,  and  the  tender  hopes,  love's  fruition, 
seemed  fully  present  with  her  now. 

The  golden  sunlight  fades  out,  the  stars  come 
forth  and  twinkle  faintly  above,  the  night  winds 
rustle  the  leaves  over  head,  and  carry  the  shat 
tered  roses  away,  leaving  tender  kisses  on  the  two 
happy  young  faces.  Low  words  of  love  and  trust  and 
hope,  pass  their  lips ;  promises  of  fidelity  and  pledges 
of  truth  are  whispered  ;  a  good-bye  is  spoken,  a  warm 
passionate  kiss,  a  close  embrace,  and  it  is  over.  One 
goes  out  into  the  world,  to  "  do  and  to  dare,"  and  the 
other  remains  in  a  nest  of  roses,  to  dream  and  to 
hope  ;  and  God  is  over  all — yes,  God  is  over  all. 

PART    SECOND. 

Silently  the  shadows  creep  up  over  the  hill-tops, 
silently  the  days  fly  past,  and  are  numbered  with  the 
things  that  were  ;  aye,  silently  the  days,  and  months, 
and  years  have  past  away.  The  great  shuttle  of  Time 
has  woven  dark  threads  into  the  beautiful  fabric ;  it 
is  stained  here  and  there  with  tears,  the  gold  is 
tarnished,  the  jewels  have  dropped  from  their  silver 
settings,  and — the  world  goes  on — Time  goes  on  for 
ever. 


AN     IDYL.  293 

The  shadows  have  deepened  over  the  young  life — 
the  smiles  rarely  come  now,  and  yet  she  strives  to  be 
gay — strives  to  still  the  wild  throbbings  of  her  aching 
heart,  working  daily  at  the  common-place  duties  of 
life,  trying  to  forget  the  pain  of  the  past,  and  to  close 
her  eyes  against  the  blank,  desolate  future,  trying 
vainly  to  forget  the  days  that  once  seemed  brighter 
than  now — than  they  ever  will  again  ;  crushing  back 
her  hopeless  grief,  and  smiling  even  through  a  mist 
of  tears  that  will  come,  praying  for  a  stronger  will  to 
meet  the  ills  of  life.  But  the  roses  are  crushed  out. 
their  fragrance  has  died  away,  and  nothing  remains 
to  tell  that  they  have  been. 

How  hard  it  is  to  believe  that  "  good  most  is ;" 
how  hard  for  anguished  lips  to  say  '  Thy  will;"  how 
hard  to  believe  that  "There  is  but  one  great  Right 
and  Good,  and  that  Wrong  and  111  are  shades  thereof, 
and  not  substance."  Sad  hearts  see  no  good  in  evil ; 
breaking  hearts  feel  no  good  in  the  loss  of  their  idols; 
strong  hearts  are  hushed  in  the  stillness  of  de 
spair  ;  strong  hands  are  still  in  their  agony  ;  firm 
lips  grow  pale  with  suffering ;  brave  hearts  falter 
at  the  picture  of  future  desolation,  as  they  see  the 
twilight  coming  on  ;  brave  souls  murmur  at  the  heavy 
burden  of  their  woe.  And  though  the  roses  bloom 


294  AN     IDYL. 

and  fade  and  bud  again  in  other  years,  their  fragrance 
conies  no  more  into  their  lives,  and  the  shadows 'of 
twilight  settle  about  them. 

The  maiden  has  grown  into  a  woman,  her  sorrows 
have  made  her  older  than  have  the  years  ;  still, 
she^sees  no  hidden  beauty  ahead,  and  her  pale  lips 
falter  as  she  repeats  : 

"  From  all  that  live  I  live  apart, 

An  age  has  passed  me  in  a  day ; 
Its  joys  have  ripened  in  rny  Leart, 

Its  cares  have  touched  and  left  me  gray." 

She  looks  into  the  gathering  gloom  and  sees  no 
stars  ;  she  hears  not  the  songs  of  the  birds ;  the  winds 
are  not  soft  and  caressing,  but  cold  and  cutting.  She 
tries  to  repeat,  "As  Thou  wilt,"  but  cannot, — no,  not 
yet.  Still,  God  is  over  all. 

•> 

PART    THIRD. 

The  Autumn  has  come,  the  fruits  are  ripe  and 
ready  to  gather,  and  the  hilltops  are  gorgeous  in  their 
rich  autumnal  robe  placed  there  by  Nature's  hand. 

A  woman  with  a  sweet  face  and  full  of  peace  and 
love,  full  of  grave  tenderness  and  gentleness,  looks 
out  into  the  sunshine  and  smiles  lovingly  on  the  little 
children  who  greet  her.  She  is  glad  of  the  beautiful 
day,  of  the  sunshine  and  beauty  of  earth.  The  light 


AN    IDYL.  295 

falls  in  clear  warm  rays  across  her  silvered  hair. 
With  her  the  joyousness  of  youth  is  past,  the  anguish 
of  disappointment  fled,  the  rebellion  against  life  over, 
the  heaviness  of  heart  gone,  and  a  deep,  abiding  peace 
fills  her  heart.  She  thinks  tenderly  over  the  "  pleas 
ures  that  will  never  come  again,"  but  the  bitterness  is 
past,  and  life  has  its  WORK. 

Her  woman-life  has  found  a  deep  meaning  in  the 
sorrows  of  her  girlhood  ;  she  has  meekly  shouldered 
the  burdens  of  life,  and  filled  up  many  hours  with 
blessed  toil.  She  dreams  no  more,  but  works.  The 
shuttle  of  Time  is  flying  swiftly  now,  weaving  in 
bright  colors,  not  of  thoughts,  but  of  actions  ;  filling 
up  the  fabric  of  human  destiny  with  beautiful  threads 
of  goodness. 

The  maiden  is  a  woman  now — a  true,  brave 
worker;  and  the  world  is  better  for  her  living.  The 
sorrows  of  youth  have  purified  and  ennobled  her,  and 
life  has  a  broader  meaning  than  self,  and  she  says 
with  true  faith  now,  "  If  evil  most  seem,  yet  good 
most  is." 

"  Some  plants  must  blossom  in  the  light, 

And  some  in  shady  places  set, 
Must  bear  full  many  a  change  and  blight, 
Before  perfection  shall  be  met." 

We  know  not  what  is  best  for  us,  but  be  sure 
that  GOD  is  OVER  ALL.. 


296  EXTRACTS. 


EXTRACTS. 

IN  accordance  with  the  plan  laid  out  in  the 
beginning  of  man's  supremacy  on  earth,  the  wicked 
are  bound  to  suffer.  Men  may  argue  that  there  is  no 
hell — no  final  and  everlasting  punishment ;  they  may 
fill  the  world  with  mad  theories  and  unhallowed 
faiths  ;  may  turn  the  doctrines  or  faith  of  our  fathers 
— whom  we  were  wont  to  believe  were  good  men — up 
side  down  ;  may  show  that  our  mothers  were  "  blind 
leaders  of  the  blind,"  or  weak  superstitious  women, 
who  accepted  implicitly  the  faith  of  their  ancestors  ; 
may — as  Bob  Ingersol  of  our  own  day  is  doing — talk 
loudly  of  the  foolhardiness  of  a  faith  which  would, 
under  any  circumstances,  launch  one  into  perdition  ; 
may  boldly  announce  that  they  have  no  respect  for 
any  one  who  believes  in  a  hell — and  who  can  bear  to 
lose  respect  for  so  great  and  good  a  man  as  Bob  Inger 
sol  ! — but  believe  as  we  may,  the  fact  stands  firm, 
and  will  not  be  uprooted  to  sprout  new  doctrine  or 
new  theories  which  are  a  weariness  to  the  brain,  and 
always  are  leading  one  a  mad  chase  after  Truth,  until 
he  grows  misanthropic  and  distrustful  of  everything. 

— [LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 


EXTRACTS.  297 

THE  tides  cannot  stand  still,  any  more  than  the 
wild  surgings  of  the  human  brain ;  both  are  con 
trolled  by  an  invisible  power — an  impulse  too  strong 
to  resist.  We  may  struggle  against  a  bitter  thought 
until  it  is  somewhat  softened  and  modified,  but  an 
other  comes  first,  it  may  be  gentler,  sweeter,  but  it  is 
only  a  prelude  to  another  outburst  of  infinite  misery, 
and  the  thralldom  is  even  more  complete  than  if  it 
had  been  allowed  to  take  its  course  at  first — it  has 
ripened  and  gathered  new  force.  Men  have  been 
maddened — their  intellects  cramped  into  such  cir 
cumscribed  bounds  that  the  stamp  of  idiocy  was 
visible ;  by  the  overwhelming  strength  of  a  bitter 
thought.  So  it  is  with  the  tides — they  rise  slowly, 
gradually,  but  they  gain  force  until  their  strength  is 
resistless,  overpowering  ;  and  with  the  rise  of  the 
winds,  ships  are  submerged,  strewing  the  waters  with 
the  wrecks  and  the  valuable  cargo  of  human  lives. 


298  BREAKING   UP. 


BREAKING  UP. 

How  much  it  means — how  full  of  deep  import ! 
Breaking  up !  Scattering  the  dreams  of  a  lifetime  to 
the  winds  ;  burying  the  hopes  of  long  years  of  toil 
and  privation  in  the  deep  river  of  Regret ;  letting 
loose  the  strong  anchor  of  the  ideal  and  beatific, 
and  grasping — what  ?  Only  a  few  withered  leaves. 
The  apples  have  turned  to  ashes  in  the  hand — the 
leaves  have  withered  and  faded.  Every  thing  has 
proved  a  mockery. 

Breaking  up  !  The  children  you  have  toiled  and 
prayed  for — have  planned  and  dreamed  for — are  not 
up  to  your  ideal  standard,  and  that  is  a  cross  heavy 
to  bear.  As  the  years  have  lengthened  you  have 
become  reconciled  to  that.  But  this  is  hard — to  toil 
so  long,  so  patiently,  so  uncomplainingly,  for  them  ; 
then  when  the  shadows  of  age  creep  into  the  dear 
eyes  which  have  watched  them  so  patiently,  the 
children  must  fly  from  the  old  nest — must  try 
some  other  home.  First  goes  the  eldest — a  daughter  ; 
the  child  of  many  prayers.  She  finds  strong  arms 
to  plead  for  her ;  and,  forgetful  for  awhile,  she  rushes 
away  into  the  new,  untried  life,  and  leaves  the  father 


BREAKING  UP.  299 

C 

and  mother  to  fight  the  remaining  years  without  her. 
Cruel,  is  it  ?  Who  can  tell  ?  Nature  has  decreed  it 
so,  and  we  must  not  judge. 

After  the  first  break  in  the  chain,  the  links  seem 
easy  to  snap.  Then  follow  the  boys,  one  by  one, — 
each  going  to  win  a  future  of  his  own ;  till  now,  out 
of  the  six,  only  one  remains.  One,  the  ewe  lamb  of 
the  flock — the  Isaac,  the  child  of  your  old  age.  Gone! 
Drifted  away  from  the  sheltering  care  of  the  parents ; 

"  Drifting,  drifting  to  lands  unknown, 

From  a  world  of  love  and  care; 
Drifting  away  to  a  home  untried, 

And  hearts  that  are  beating  there;" 

and  yet  they  push  out,  heedless  of  the  pain  and  heart 
ache  they  are  causing. 

You  are  left  alone  now — settled  down  after  hard 
toil  and  busy  care  for  the  children — to  an  old  age  of 
loneliness.  You  live  now,  not  on  dreams  of  the  future, 
but  on  recollections  of  the  past  ;  recollections  mixed 
with  pain  and  joy,  but  beautiful  to  you,  because  they 
are  of  a  time  when  the  "little  ones"  were  at  home. 

And  slowly  as  the  waves  creep  nearer  your  feet 
and  the  tide  rises  to  bear  you,  who  have  loved  us  so, 


300  BREAKING   UP. 

out  on  its  bosom  to  the  beautiful  Beyond,  you  will  see 
and  know  and  feel  that, 

"  The  seed  must  be  buried  deep  in  earth 

Before  the  lily  opens  to  the  sky; 
So  'light  is  sown,'  and  gladness  has  its  blith 
In  the  dark  deeps  where  we  can  only  cry. 

"  'Life  out  of  death,'  is  Heaven's  unwritten  law; 

Nay,  it  is  written  in  a  myriad  forms; 
The  victor's  palm  grows  on  the  fields  of  war, 
And  strength  and  beauty  are  the  fruit  of  storms. 

"  Come  then,  my  soul,  be  brave  to  do  and  bear; 

Thy  life  is  bruised  that  it  may  be  more  sweet; 
The  cross  will  soon  be  left,  the  crown  we'll  wear — 
Nay,  we  will  cast  it  at  the  Savior's  feet; 

"  And  up  among  the  glories  never  told, 

Sweeter  than  music  of  the  marriage  bell, 
Our  hands  will  strike  the  vibrant  harp  of  gold 
To  the  glad  song,   '  He  doeth  all  things  well. '  " 


THE    END. 


UN]- 


LO- 

LIBRARY 


' 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


FormL9  —  15m-10,'48(B103 


Si  ngl  fttary- 


2859   Bedford- 

361  7  H 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS2859  .S617d 


L  009  494  892  4 


T  -nfc-*    >       --    J$r    A     Y/jL'     •* 

wa«B^S^*?S  ^ 

-f»  ArJ  *    -      X.    •       .  lU^t   •-.«   ,    "%-fi-J-   .  " 


^fl-^^  •%'^v*&fr£5r'  x^yrr-: f*--.:  ^» 

W »;  "fe'H  ^:  J^T'  §^- 

^*^rWv.mt'  ^3^K£at,        •,  A 


itK^^PB^-^  r.; 


» 


